Jaun Elia:
She came to my grave with her new beloved,
Who says that one cannot be burned after being buried?
Mohit Rahinj:
I did not die among the people of this world,
Someone killed me.
It was my beloved’s ploy,
A conspiracy to burn me even after burying me.
She did not let me live while I was alive,
Nor did she let me depart in peace after death.
She is burning me even after I have died,
She is not letting me find peace even after death.
She did not let me live when I was alive,
And when I was on my way to paradise, she did not let me go.
She is still burning me even after death,
Look at all the things my beloved is doing for me.
My beloved, you have already taken my life,
Now, must I surrender my words to you as well?
Do not cry, my heart
I am still beside you
Hold your remaining breath
Gather your broken dreams
We must walk again
No one hears this pain
No one knows my silence
Fire burns deep inside
Tears flow within my soul
Still, I must smile
Do not leave me, heart
I will stay beside you
Even if worlds depart
Even if bonds are broken
You remain my friend
She chose another journey
My life must not stop
Her memories may hurt
Yet they will make me
I must live for myself
Rise, my heart, rise
Wipe away those tears
Your path still awaits
Your life belongs to you
I will become my light
LITERARY INTERPRETATIONS-:-
coexisting
detailed
depictioned
staged
contrasts
with NO DEPTH
particular
unsmoothed
graceful
plausible
aesthetics
in FIGURES DEVISED
complex
enigmatic
fairy-tale
idealised
inventions
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prof: Welcome, Lady Metaphor—thank you for joining my podcast today.
Lady M: Sorry, I arrived early; I have a tendency to appear unannounced. Ask me what you like.
Prof: You haunt our sentences—where do you live?
Lady M: In the space between is and is like.
Prof: Your favorite hiding spot?
Lady M: Behind as if, inside a liar’s pause.
Prof: Some say you’re overused.
Lady M: So is oxygen. Try living without me.
Prof: Any advice for new poets?
Lady M:Don’t chase me. Stand still. I’ll find you.
Some forms of soup both hot and cold to exercise the stomach, there's quite a few
borscht, gazpacho, minestrone, mulligatawny, cock a leekie and there's a gumbo too
So many forms of poetry to exercise the mind,
ABC, Cape diem, Crown of Sonnets, Double Dactyl, Villanic and Verse,
Could it be that soup and poetry are somehow aligned ?
For all the years of consuming many different kinds of soup, a natural way made sense
This new found discovery of poetic form, yet come to grips
It's still in a metaphoric thinking paddock, divided by a fence
Learning sometimes feels like mind is travelling in a thick pea souper fog
A diversion, clearly now the time is ripe, on a different site will log
And yes there is alignment !! Found a literary group
Wondered why it took so long to discover Poetry Soup
Stray words pulled from thin air
strung like birds on a wire
as a poem
won't light my fire
random thoughts on the off-chance
hung as wash on the line
is worse and not verse
at least not one of mine
every tenth girl's name
flung from pages in the dictionary
like pretty maids all in a row
is neither prose nor poetry
give me literary or give me wealth
of wisdom humour rhyme or reason
lyrically make me laugh or think
entertain elucidate or educate
for therein lies the missing link
(“Morphogenesis Merit Badge”, 2011, original oil
“Dark Pool Nebula 3”, 2011, original oil)
From undifferentiated space
The fertilized egg does grow
Beginning without concept
Its karmic winds then blow
And as they blow and swirl about
A cloud of existence forms
And in the cloud we find ourselves
Trapped in existent norms
Norms expressed by polarities
Minds divided now by halves
As two from one we make our way
Along our separate paths.
But no matter if we laugh or cry
Our true nature’s yin and yang
And this birth gives us the chance
To grow through sturm und drang.
(11/18/25)
After Raymond Carver’s “Bankruptcy”
Thirty-seven, trick shoulder &
a sultry appetite still (exempt)
I wait for you
impatiently (exempt still)
listening to the towels tumble
as my hairy belly moans:
we are rebounds
to true pleasure.
Forgive us, (I pray in enormity)
our reckless improvidence.
Today, my heart, like the front door,
awaits unlocked
for the first time in years.
The catcher in the rye
I go and drop the ball
I lay it down and cry
I’m sleeping in the stall
Cause everyone is phony
Your company is lonely
Your animals are bony
Your everything is only
I’m underneath the bridge
Below the overpass
I’m locked inside the fridge
I’m sleeping in the grass
Cause everyone is faking
Every excuse for bailing
Your painted skin is flaking
Success story is failing
You’re spinning all around
Mascara masquerade
You’re walking without sound
A conga line charade
You’re hands and feet are bound
You’re tied into the ground
And nailed into the wall
I’ve lost sight of the ball
I’ve lost sight of the band
And buried in the sand
They’re telling me it’s fine
They’re calling me insane
They think I’ve lost my mind
They’re calling me Cobain
They’re telling me to smile
They tell me not to cry
And maybe stay a while
The catcher in the rye
To my Literary Eagle
Oh, Raven of the Ravens!
A noble intellectual high soul!
Your portrait, your life, your mind
is the decoration of my room!
Thank you for your teaching!
With forever love,
I love you
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, 2008, Mary Ann Shaffer
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
Letters, like potato peel pies, feed souls through wartime's occupation ~
My wastebasket overflows
with aborted attempts,
Lines that I cannot rhyme
and syntax that limps.
Written November 6, 2022
Submitted to "Bite Size No. 55" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
LITERARY FORM
the suspense
sealed
unexpected
then unmasked
imitative
with exploited variations
influential concepts
innocence
templated
remains
chronicled &experimental
intermittent
yet ultimate
but
seemingly discovered
an aspect unreasoned
yet
pure
relevant &equivalent
ingenuous
daring&
yet defying
cryptic interpretation
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
A lot of faith goes
into every write – faith
in my reservoir of
words; in the point
of my pencil – and
the paper's ability to
respond –
Faith in the Spirit Divine:
hoping that I write for the
good of humanity, and not
just to further pen the powers
of an insatiable ego – craving
acceptance and applauds:
those literary sweets that
attract easy tastes but
diminish in substance
and form after prolonged
sunlight....
Advancing the soul,
metaphysical orc, promote
original thinking,
experience all, I need sleep.
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCgZCmCJJoCVwq2M3GH8VzLQ
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.