Best Martyr Poems
If I had over 10,000 dreams
You'd be the only thing my mind could see
Judgment couldn't be real
Succumbing to the fear of this cold life
Find a way to break through
The self-destruction of wordly delusions
Don't tell me I've lived so long in a lovely illusion
Break me down until we find a Nirvanic state
Then bring me a savior from transgressions
An atoning sacrifice
Send down to me a messenger for me to submit to
Bring me the truth to break through The delusion
Bring me the messenger to explain it all
And let me leave behind
Sorrow's caressing the earth
The caliphate stole my heart
Without a will to fight
But I have the Means to be free
I'll try to go with the word I believe
But so many stones to be thrown
Stakes to burn, limbs to break
Faces to hate, scorns to taste
Will I have the will to die
Despite all of the tears no one will cry
Sorrow's caressing the earth
The caliphate stole my heart
Broke my will
Safetefied my soul
Martyr for the Unorthodox word
Sorrow's caressing the earth
The caliphate stole my heart
Without a will to fight
But I have the Means to be free
I'll try to go with the word I believe
But so many stones to be thrown
Stakes to burn, limbs to break
Faces to hate, scorns to taste
Will I have the will to die
Despite all of the tears no one will cry
Sorrow's caressing the earth
The caliphate stole my heart
Broke my will
Safetefied my soul
Martyr for the Unorthodox word
In every lesson
Teacher slaughters me alone
With hard questions
The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
===========================
In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class,
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting,
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
And, silently,
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door”
Oh, grief!
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother..
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white,
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief,
Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..
O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
----------------------------------------
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect
sooth said to Caesar
sire beware the Ides of March-
assassins martyr'd
Bravery/Divinity/Savior/Martyr
Hobbes
Bravery, divinity, savior, martyr,
Each word is powerful in its own right.
Each tying together,
Bound by chains forged of iron.
Bravery is a trait not commonly found,
And often we find,
To the brave we are bound.
But this bondage comes with a price...
Those who walk the divine path are few,
Though high in presence.
They often demand dominance of their people.
A dominance so unsavoury and unfitting for the divine.
A man called saviour it is often found,
Is a slave to his people.
Sold to slavery for the good of all,
As he accends to his richeous standing.
Last but not least the martyr gives her life,
Layed down for the one she calls master.
Be it noble cause or religous zeal,
The master claims her life in the end.
Bondage, Dominance, Slavery and Mastery,
Each word is powerful in its own right.
For in the end even the greatest men and women,
Are sucum to the chains of BDSM.
A Martyr
No heading to a quiet peaceful one world,
Civilisations in name of development,
Producing the deadliest,
aiming towards end of human race....
You kill me, I kill you,
I defeat and conquer,
Souls tranquil rest in grace,
While no living ponder....
When patriotism asks for a price,
the price is a valuable human life ...
Father's elderly shoulders bear his weight,
A mother's affection melts into her eyes,
When brother's heart simmers on low flame,
And inconsolable sister silently cries,
His loving wife longing to meet,
sits on his coffin, draped in white,
Little arms that embraced around his neck,
hold fire to lit the father's pyre,
Warmth of brimming human emotions,
dumped in cold blooded patriotic ice...
A martyr
By own species...
Patriotism,
A dedication or
a frenzied outburst ?
Boundaries and freedom
Be mere words...
Man against man
Be not ultimate weapon...
A land that no one owns,
is that for what we fight?
Defence or brutal sentiment of war,
is there no looking beyond this sight?
Written Sept 21st, 2016
By Dr. Upma A. Sharma
Moved by Inhumane killing of brave Uri Indian soldiers across Kashmir loc
No, my brain is alive, not dead
To know that you hate me
And yet I love you dearly
I practice love not hatred
I care about uncontiditional love
Not mutual feelings dripping from above
In rainy and stormy seasons. In unselfish ways
I willingly donate my heart and soul to you
You can shred them and then part ways
As you wish, as you see fit. I am a fool
A martyr, a lover with all of his marbles and more
I love you and I want you
I care about you. Open the door
So I can give you more until you’re saturated
Until by love you are filled up and asphyxiated
You hate me and I love you
I wonder if I am not a fool.
Copyright © September 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
I had a bath in the dark the other night.
Left the radio off.
Mum came home early that day,
I could hear her boots clattering on the tiled floor.
I sank further under the water, and exhaled shame.
It clouded the tiles, and found
The heart which I had drawn only last week, Now dripping and deformed,
Framing my girlfriends name.
I shuddered at the memory,
And sank still lower into the bath.
The heart leered at me. I scrubbed it out, And scratched in the one word I had left
inside, It had swallowed all the other words, and now sat there bloated.
Transferred to the glass it looked obscene.
My mum never let me say it, it was naughty to say The G word.
Time to leave,
A BandB tonight and then,
Who knows?
As I passed my mother, a vicious hiss,
“There goes the martyr.”
I turned, but said nothing, how could I?
I was drained after
Purging apology after apology.
She took a deep breath,
And in the tiny moment before she spoke, A strange alien voice spilled from my
mouth.
“I love her mum”
For the first time,
She stopped, and looked at me.
I couldn’t help feeling smug, vindictive, She finally understood what silence was
like, It was her turn.
And, as I repeated the words, in my harsh new voice, She shattered, and wept.
Because we both knew,
Love,
Is more than her and Dad ever had.
Father of the Nation Musabwa Kamango Munanila,
The commander-in-chief of Bavila's defence forces.
How should we cry for you ! the great bavila leader,
How should we cry for you ! bavila's grandfather,
How should we cry for you ! Our King Musabwa Kamango Munanila.
When we remember your battle
against the Belgian troops at Lubako.
When we remember how you stood up
For the rights of Bavila in uvila.
Our grandfather Musabwa,
continue resting in peace where you are.
Our grandfather Musabwa Kamango
Munanila , we will not be able to forget you.
Our grandfather Musabwa Kamango Munanila,
You took out shame of Bavila in the world.
Our grandfather Musabwa Kamango Munanila,
You stood up to defend the rights of Africans.
Our grandfather Musabwa Kamango,
You stood up to defend
justice of black people.
You can never be forgotten on this earth.
Rest safe where you are
with other African elders.
Our grandfather Musabwa Kamango Munanila,
You are our hero of all the time in this World..
Sign me Up Here
To Uterus who is not commute history
Write my name
Never I breastfeed from the bosom of the women in the slave market.
I could not believe mystics
Not ringing bells Recognition to my heart.
Million afraid
My fears millions of times
When I’m find death staring in my life
When find the coffins stacked
Alongside black like tears rains
God gives you a long life
In order to console houses filled with sadness
'Bodies of the martyrs
Their lives donated you the freedom
Next to the widows and orphans
Gallows dreams make you
Selling your heart on first road
be you a martyr
comment if ya can,
Autumn declines and the Lover falls
Heroes die and duty calls
Martyrs are men who have lost it all
fighting senselessly in political brawls
In winter's cold grip
In the land of the Angles
The Good Christians came
Against their will to a trial
In a grand city
Called the Ford of the Oxen
Good will be slaughtered
By the hands of hot fire
The hands of the judge
The home's ruler was their judge
His stare was piercing
That went with flaming outbursts
And with his red hair
And the king's false overseers
Were the proud jury
Against the thirty Christians
Who came years before
Who came to spread medicine
To heal the ones sick
Cleanse all those with leprosy
To raise the ones dead
Cleanse all those with black demons
All without a fee
But to the judge and jury
This was dark poison
That spread about pestilence
And the Good Christians
Were flees spreading everywhere
Now in England's robe
Eating away the fabric
The thirty Christians spoke thus
"Blessed are those ones
Who suffer from sword or flame
From rope or prison
Or from winter's sheer coldness
For the sake of light
For Christ and goodness itself
For they are Christ's own
They are in heaven's kingdom"
The jury looked on
In their long adorned white robes
Clenching their own fists
Feeling their ring in their palms
"Heretics!" They yelled
With that word, the trail ended
They were now guilty
Still they sang a song of life
"Blessed are those ones
Who are reviled and hated
Rejoice and be glad
For great is the light of Christ"
As red flames rose up
The king in his ruthlessness
Had all of them flogged
In the sight of the cattle
And had their brows burned
And drove them from oxen's ford
And they stripped them all
To wail and die in frost's grip
Or be still in pain
But they kept singing with joy
The king shut his mouth
For hot anger chained his lips
His freckled face scowled
All the cattle were ordered
To have no pity
And walk to the other side
If one is in sight
And not pour good oil and wine
On their bleeding wounds
And not let them find an inn
To find some shelter
They were in winter's cold chains
For nature herself
To be executioner
Those few Good Christians
Still had the spirit in them
And looked to the stars
Just as Christ laughed on the tree
They joyfully laughed
They went to this world laughing
And left this cold world laughing
x Once, one Incisive
Life went forth in
steadfast quest to
challenge both
prevailing laws
and social norms
that required all
strictly conform.
Corrupt religious sophistry and callous Rome's supremacy combined to weave
the tapestries of unrelenting tyranny. Defeating both should therefore deed
to Mankind this uplifting creed: exalt freedom and righteousness - exclude all
venal worldliness. Such quest by faith devotedly extolled in ancient prophecy.
The path chosen
though proved
to be a martyr's
tread implicitly.
While we revere
such sacrifice,
that principles
define one's life,
this story seeds
a fertile ground
where fact and
fiction both are
found. Though,
change whereby
might surely be
contained within
this verity: his
gifts of heartfelt
empathy, and also
gracious charity,
as well as moral
decency; Compas-
sion for our frailties.
Yet, praising too the Golden Rule, its promise ever worth renewal.
She always greets with a quick smile
Sparkling eyes assure her concern
A soft handshake for human touch
Turning away, the smile then fades
Her eyes grow dim and without life
The soft human touch recedes, stone
For deep inside her broken heart
Remains a self inflicted wound
From long ago, when life began
No matter how grand her fortune
Nothing will erase the awful past
Never accepting happiness
She’ll always remain the martyr
© Copyrights G. Jones 2008