Long A priori Poems
Long A priori Poems. Below are the most popular long A priori by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long A priori poems by poem length and keyword.
PROLOGUE
Biographies are for men who have a need to cry
To spell out what we remember is to subtract all
We forget, for knowing then nothing knew, a lie
Conjured by history, there's no a priori here at all
If you will not abuse my love
I will dive for you deeper forgotten things, bring
Up from bottom hate to prove
To be a better god we gladly, boldly took the sting
And could not have merely comprehended joy until
Our serpent made the safe-God to repent of his will
Here is my life strands of sands upon your windy palm
I'm the syllables of every gospel, beginning at the Psalm
Proverbs skinned like rice from the shaft, seeking balm.
History immaculate pristine in no myth ever shall sleep
Introspection vigils struggle between words and memory
Philosophy is a dream, not I, who numbers days urgently,
The sleeping dog will sleep, but my promise let me keep.
i
IDENTITY
I do not even know how it began, night or day
Rain or shine - nor what season they had interplay
I only know that nine must have been too long since
I overstayed my time and made her grimaced, grunt
And groaned to push me out. So of course, I wince
Privy to so much uncertainty. I have a given month
A date, but what is time alone for anyone's beginning
I want to remember the pool I paddled in the flesh
The long rope that called my navel a primal mouth
The red tide of mud from her veins which so much clout
I was hooked on it, around the perimeter where I thresh
So much more can come from a real truth of beginning.
I mean, how comes we have no control over our beginning
And you expect me in the middle to give you meaning
I will not buy the lie, I choose allegiance but know not how
The end shall fufill its promises of me. The air burns still
Like an acrid vapor on the lungs, and not yet I shall spill
The anger from the fumes of air, nor low ever can I bow
Before the hand that slapped my butt and told me scream.
You say indecent, I say unjust, for he proved no love so
Soon nor knew of me any wrong. The conspirators team
Around a common cause: a man must cry so they know
He has life; my kicking legs were not enough. The water
Suddenly left me swaddled in air and just a little laughter.
I do not take kindly to being whipped, nor did I protest then
About my eviction, and the sudden weight of many things.
Das papa anathema & furor he hiss toward patriarchal hierarchy
Courtesy mine eldest sister Amelie
Beth (thirteen plus months my senior),
whose maternal love equals heart as emoji,
she nsync with other kith and kin
painstakingly fleshed out family tree,
formerly severely uprooted, me
knowledge of ancestry
truncated, denuded..., bereft
any extended offshoots you see,
thus without doubt earned a priori
gene nee us award for peopling bee
silly decorative swallowtail and
wild asparagus coat of arms motif,
but particularly her artistry
paternal branch Harris and
maternal Russian limb named Kuritsky,
yet now unwittingly feel stumped
I ruminate, speculate, tabulate..., re:
garding one or more descendent did trumpet
objectionable bent with bias, decadent,
flagrant... haughty jarring averse trait
invariably patriarchal heir arch key
impossible impossible to hold figurative tongue
and rebuke stereotypical tendency
resigning, excluding, kraaling..., privileges
to any persons except Caucasian wealth thee
males, who fathered established, commandeered...
western civilization paradigm, I smart
with displeasure at gross injustice curtailed free
choice to acquire unshackled life, liberty,
and pursuit amidst avast booming population,
whose supposed inalienable rights blithely
usurped and denigrated creed, ethnicity,
and indisputably those with frizzy
hair still evident this late date two thousand
nineteen, I decry, grieve, lament,... particular lee
how women haint got no choice - chattel
to grand poobahs - to terminate pregnant sea
really irksome, when predicted on incest, rape
non viable offspring...violation this
garden variety poetaster recoils with knee
jerk loathsome, how young females jailed
if they undergo abortion
(with unwanted, unloved, unborn..., bay bee
thru no fault in their own stars),
punishment nasty, brutal and abhorrent
essentially enslaving the gentler sex lee
ving terror and horror, when peering into mirror
ogre looming ready to strangle gal lest she
obey mandate else...
in intriguing little crime scene
we have here eh Inspector Marsupial
a freeway overpass whore's
cardboard box and mattress
and a paperclip necklace
juxtaposed on a dissecting table
at some point a losing strategy
has to be examined
even if the last conclusion is
that we are here to be punished
for being here
Marsupial searched his pachinko readout
acting on the assumption
that in at least one setting
he could juggle us a grand total
even if the light was sub visible
which you don't see every day
bottom line you're here growing scared
blame enough to go around
manipulators of fear with a plan
wreckers of civilizations
is there anything in us that is inviolate
he was a master of pedestrian insights
with a repertoire of a priorI assumptions
packaged for the pop psych tabloids
his mouth flapping like a puppet on a string
the official Government spokesman
for the natural state of man
comrades these are troubled times
but not like before
during the really troubled times
so relax it’s an alchemist's contraption
made from bed springs and spooge
proletarian gyro-chemistry in action
every atom wanting to go its own way
cause beyond knowledge or even sense
the problem with categories is that
some blank out and obliterate the others
the banana daiquiri
had apparently reached his thalamus
clean your spoon son
that's government chow
and so began the long loud logomania
you have before you now
my rabbI assures me this is therapeutic
inductive in deductive out
forehead wrinkles along for the ride
knowing what is out of place
dawn and the bust of Aristotle
juxtaposed upon a toilet seat
shoot me I said juxtaposed again
it's not the circus of consensus it used to be
last I checked slapstick is still dead
I'm pretty sure everything
can be described by numbers
there are enough of them for the job
wheel chairs killed the fashion show
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
A minor typo found this fanatic spell binding hound to resend a poem posse sub bully dashed off in a huff (past the hour) if nothing else than fur his spurt full of peace, bot tee, and mind.
Thus this Norwegian bachelor wannabe (most closely aligned with said status closely attained unmarried state by pledging my Unitarian troth) tilled, sown, and furrowed spirit nsync with the missus sleeping in close proximity.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
dog tired this day - march 29th, 2018
no matter this dawg gone pup
took numerous one after another cat nap
his utterly fatigued
body electric still ragged
as if he went without sleep for a lifetime,
ensnared within a time warp,
espied that aggravating "aw SNAP"
(error code instead of a webpage
indicating Chrome happens to be
experiencing problems loading)
or, simultaneously
caught in a narcoleptic parent trap
thus, while a burst of energy
temporarily doth prevail
(a priori which extreme fatigue
of body, mind and spirit -
more troublesome, and worse than -
getting crucified
with a rusty nine inch nail
alleviated with deep sleep finds
much more tiredness
than usual quotidian sleepiness
bruiting this male)
being imprisoned (for high
gram matt tick crimes
and misdemeanors) such as: comma, splices,
dangling a modifier, splitting an infinitive,
unnecessary parenthesis (), et cetera
which landed me punctually,
proverbially, and squarely
in the slaammed shut jail
fed thin gruel with grubs that didst flail
nauseating pluperfect revulsion
each time hide exhale
which, many hours long rests did restore
for a bit of time only for totally tubular
exhaustion to come roar
ring back leaving me tour
charred as if...i fought in every major war.
Seven Years Rachel*, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Sept ans Rachel by T. Wignesan
For seven years Rachel remains sealed
By the kiss she received from Jacob
For seven years she keeps her eyelashes lowered
Under the impact of their unique encounter.
When he saw her on that one occasion
He was reduced to tears,
So very much of her sweetness was revealed to him
The blue tint of the nocturnal sunset
Reminiscent of God.
There’s no love without nostalgia
When will I seize what has gotten hold of me ?
You’re as beautiful as the fleecy Rachel
When the immense army comes together.
You shine on up there like a moon-like pebble
At the bottom of a well.
You are unreachable further than the stars
An a priori hint of Him.
From the moment your gaze comes to rest on me
It lights up the fires of Bethel.*
I have seen God enthroned in your pupils
And all the exit paths in the world
Converge upon you.
The désert which has pursued me close upon the heels
Hardened roused till it reaches you
Until my return to the fold
That was a spiraling tearing apart of the fire
Hatched from beneath my entrails.
O ladder which consumes me O flame
The dwelling by whom my insides burn
You are the native home of the soul
You are the mother’s smile come to rest on the child
Yours is the infancy of God over this world
Virgin speech like God’s own gaze
The unruly smoothness of fire.
(from Jacob, O.C. t. II, p. 62)
*The poem alludes, draws and constructs itself on the imagery relating to the « legend » of the biblical Jacob’s dream and the ladder, recorded in Genesis, key symbols in the interpretations of Judeo-Christian and Islamic religious concepts and history.
• Bethel : (Lit.) « House of God »
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 17, 2014
Apart from all the silence,
And never-ending tolerance;
Together with a vague shout,
And without any creeping doubt;
In feeling all the spiky nudges,
Taking my energy like sponges.
I am by your side and all’s fair.
I truly love you and I dare:
From my lips to your honey smile,
Along with baggage in a pile,
I take thee being so excited;
I contemplate you quite delighted.
My words are feeble as my ankles.
My adoration comes in bundles.
You whisper sweetness in my mind;
You are too lovely and too kind.
I wish for dreams to become real,
Ponder to rip fantasy’s seal…
Alas, you are departing in slow pace;
Yet, I could not see your angelic face.
Perhaps another soporific path
Would get me to enjoy your divine laugh.
Maybe a daydream will suffice,
For me to kiss you at least twice.
My lashes gently touch each other,
Hoping this romance would get further.
The squares in jelly water interchange,
With shades in an eerie, blue-grey range,
I am trapped in the open space of fear,
Solution: I long for you just near.
However this subconscious game may end,
Through all the hallways of my inner blend,
Along comes hesitation and the dance
Of passing to the next level of chance.
This road of forbidden wishes cradles
The vanity of my nothingness veils.
I am so liberated from my rage,
But chained, a priori, to this worldly stage.
You are projection and my camouflage;
Forever my shackles, prisoner and judge.
Although you are with me when I’m awake,
Leave you in dreams I have to, for my sake.
Two days gone now
I write post priori and empirical
My life's purpose, and analytical
All love's solemn vow
For I too love the day of my birth
I too seek from life a noble worth
Was that innocense
Alone, a child ready to believe all
It's told, upright still yet to crawl
The unbroken fence
Through, and find no limit in view
To be fullly ignorant without a clue
What else is freedom
Or all those abstract things we find
Impaled on the boundary of a mind?
O we dream so dumb
From birth to grave the fictive fact
Between a petal and flowery bract.
Like bowling pins, we
The a priori logic up, but post event
For we know nothing nor can lament
Our blind new apostacy.
The evening tides rises high O again
The sand castle builders labor in vain.
I ponder these when
From boyhood I wandered to deep
Forest dark to seek and fell asleep
Where lark and doves blend
To sing a song unknown to all we ken
O I wanted to know its meaning then!
Why me, and me here
And how long before man and trees end
Their cycle, and that power we contend
To hide our one fear
How time escalates our fixed terminus
How all our difference is one same dust.
Birth tells me nothing
Except that life is a sweet random gift
I spend to enjoy and lose innocense thrift.
I wrestle the thing
The good and evil of our days exumed
The stench still sells if its well perfumed
I celebrate faith
For there is nothing else to praise today
All that falls to entropy is living clay
And sooner or late
If there is no terminus I yet cannot lose
He only has a chance who dares to choose.
Messed up room and untouched books ariled by dust,
Branded cards specially bought
To bring out yips,
Last year’s Questions
Cut-short by hazards,
Next day’s paper
To prove the intellectuality in us.
Gabfest few minutes and
Gambling with the Joker for few hours,
A priori minds
And the counterattack,
A checkmate came after
When we realized
Only a night left thereafter.
Tension free four noetic minds
Held back for the bid,
Contributions pulled together
For the set paper to reach us.
Selected essay types and unsorted small questions -
Difficulty aroused to find out the answers
For the latter ones.
A yawning start and pages on count
Serious four minds
Now settled to start with the easygoing ones.
A Night-tea break and counting the part left
A great deal to follow, Unlaxed mood yet.
Cut-shorts answers on the way to close
Six month’s at one night
Now to face a three hours of fight.
Smiling four faces and head surging legion
Final bell rang and papers distributed.
Eye balls bulged out,
Heads started to itch,
Last night bid paper
Appeared a son of a b(i)tch.
Experienced four minds
Now to prove their intellectuality –
They followed the same old tricks.
Mugged up answers allotted
To the questions appeared from the same chapter,
Few were filled up
By their inborn self author.
Three hours to end
And we finished an half before,
We just followed the same old theory trick
Never leave the field blank
Or else to choke.
-------------x-------------------
The Groom of the Stool
(Two meditations on an ancient post: see below)
I.
The Groom of the Stool needs some time
To commit his experience to rhyme.
This commodious peer
Detests diarrhoea
But thinks constipation sublime
II.
See where the philosophic King
Sits Rodinesque upon his “throne”.
The patient Groom stands wondering
And draws conclusions of his own.
As often at such times as these,
He thinks of Plato, Locke and Kant
And their epistemologies —
And of his own ingenious slant:
“His Majesty – though no-one’s fool,
A veritable Marc Aurel –
Rises still wiser from his stool.
From which it’s possible to tell
That wisdom comes not only a priori,
But also, sometimes, a posteriori.”
Note: These two tasteless pieces were prompted by a colleague’s discovery of the post of “Groom of the Stool”.
This was a highly-placed courtier in 16th Century England, whose prestigious task it was – I regret to say, gentle reader – to wipe the Royal Bottom, at least according to some sources:
* https://www.tudorsociety.com/groom-stool-sarah-bryson/;
* http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/king-toilet-attendant-england?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=atlas-page
We fell – as one would – to speculating about the philosophical and poetic potential of this post....
"Reification" has it that biologically-intrinsic "Morality" understood as a-priori to Perception makes "Religion" a "Collective" or "Shared" Psychological experience.
CHAT GPT says:
Put it this way: ~ God = the unpatterned, unnameable origin of all value = Dynamic Quality = the ineffable source that both creates and escapes form. ~ Science then wouldn't "believe in God" the way theology does—but it could include God, as the unknowable wellspring that gives rise to all knowables. That’s not dogma—it’s metaphysics
~
Between two mirrors - Between two imaginations' what Can't be reflected, but the only things we know to be real is thoes mirrors and observers.
'God creates man' out of river-clay-mud and the east-wind & 'Man creates God' out of stomach-pangs and the stars.
It's no surprise then, that we build huts-of-clay like our Father and wander about the Earth like our Feather-Proud Mother but our God Of The Other Time and The Other Place and The Material Of The Immaterial . . .
"A Living God" as the last significant iteration but that too fails the test of: "Truth As Origin" except in "Trust": The wellspring of symbiosis ~ the progenitor of All Evolutionary Forms.
that's a God I understand and; "Have a little faith in me" takes on new meaning!