Long Arduously Poems
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It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................****, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
The year is almost over.
And I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that notion.
It’s just another trip around the Sun for some semi self-aware
monkeys that can’t get a grip on what it means to be, “human”.
I found myself in a cloud of vapor and hastily circling thoughts
in the heart of the Witching hour.
Not about resolutions- inevitably broken promises to myself that only lead to more regret.
No hope for 2019, nor dread for the recurring storm that is life.
I thought about galaxies colliding in-between lovers on a different plane of existence; I wondered about what they would think- feel if they perceived its presence. Would it make them feel small? Ruin their mood?
Or would they feel more connected than ever, and finally feel love the way all stardust should?
I thought about the eternal push and pull of it all, and I could hear the waves at the Gulf from my bedroom. 30 miles instantly becoming a
diminutive distance in the face of boundlessness.
Rain began to delicately tap at my window as my eyes became small wishing wells
full of bloodshot wonder. I could see flowers blooming at the speed of light in distant realms where time worked in ways we don’t understand yet.
I felt the black hole that will be in this place someday form, just for a moment
in my core. And a terrible rush fled through me. Lightning struck my bones.
I was empty. Starving. And yet, full of infinite power and determination.
And as I began to collapse, I gasped. Shuttering out energy and becoming a gift-giving eruption that would last longer than any sentient being’s ability
to ponder it. At least, at any one time, on a single plane.
Revolutions, and revolutions. Round and round, we go.
All is one, one is all. Infinite distance- compressed together until
combustion. Such a beautiful, painful, and timeless dance.
As my eyelids become shooting stars, driving down toward the horizon
I’ve been arduously trying to quantify, I give in to my body’s limitations
and let sleep guide me home. Only to wake up to another resounding pirouette,
met by our closest star. Wishing, already that I could see its smile against the Moon.
-James Kelley 2018
Maybe this can't be saved.
One more short year and I'll never see her again. I'll always be wondering about
her but it's better left that way. Never been able to face the truth. Even now.
We were all each other needed, some childish indestructable duo of sorts. All
gone.
Sometimes it's my fault. I've been a cliche since prom night when she came over
and apologised and suddenly she was perfection. After that I hardly spoke
around her in case I stuttered or worse, couldn't make her laugh. Was I in love? If
I was I still am. This intolerable inferiority complex, this petrified fear of not being
good enough feels all too familiar.
Don't think there was one moment when it all happened, but now I find myself
smiling arduously in black armour; all that she made me once again
undermined. I called her my mermaid; sunny skin, the beach in her hair and eyes
shining with all the colours and tempers of the ocean.
Now she's hacked away every detail of her. Barely recognisable, even to the one
who used to know her best.
There's a girl I still know, dancing through my memories, but already clinging to
herself, desperate to remain. She knows she can't stay forever.
We're not the people we were; this can never work.
Today I'm hiding behind a calm and carefree front; she can never know, nor
understand why. I'm blocking her out.
Out of sight, out of mind
No explanation. We were dying anyway.
But if she asks why I can't see her anymore
How can I even look her in the face?
If that's selfish then at last it's my turn.
I miss her even when we're locked in embrace. Affection is genuine. All else is
lost. She can't save us, can't put in the effort. I've tried but I'm weak. Another
excuse to take cover under.
I can't change her back. Why am I trying? I should just make the most of my
precious friend now.
A little more of her slips away every day.
You suddenly appeared to me Jesus.
You were sitting in the lotus position
in your raiment of colorful robes. . .levitating.
Your wavy long locks had turned grey.
You did not speak to me, you just
looked at me with your kindest eyes
and raised a cup in my honor and
then you vanished like a specter into the
sun splashed day leaving me shaken
in wonder and contemplation.
I have endeavored arduously to decipher
that vision, that day-dream that felt so surreal.
What message were you trying to communicate?
Was your silent toast meant to convey that
you feel I am walking down the right path?
If only I could have spoken to you before
you vanished I would have asked how I could
serve you better, and I would have devoutly
honored you with my soft tears of joy.
I can still see your hair lifted by that gentle breeze
near the verdant grasses encircled by tall pines.
Did you appear in this natural serene setting
because it is where I feel closest to you?
It seemed so natural for you to be floating and
not standing with your feet on the earth below.
In disbelief, I wonder if I conjured your image
out of a desperate need to reinforce my faith in you?
Yet I have always deeply felt your presence without
ever seeing you manifested in physical form
encompassed by your aura of glorious golden light.
I am always asking heaven's angels for their
protection and guidance with my daily life.
Maybe you appeared to me so that I would know
you are also just a prayer away? I do know that,
beloved, and should you ever visit me again I would
just bow my head to express my gratitude
for all you have done to save humanity and for
all the love you bestow on each of us in
teaching us to love one another as we love you.
This is an Easter awakening I will never forget!
God Bless all my poetry friends this Easter and always.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Brainstorming (For Me) Generates "Writer's Block"
Lesson obstruction,
but more so an over
whelming flood of ideas
makes dredging, conceiving
than giving birth
to an amenable notion
more difficult than grabbing,
(even a tony tiger) by the tail,
who readily admits
said titled quasi moniker
denoting onset, sans
(to experience authorial dearth)
of satisfactory acceptable theme
(first to pinpoint, than expound)
more accurate generalization
cerebral struggle
regularly visits this Earth
ling, when embarking upon
a literary creative enterprise,
thus gluttonous analogy
to swollen girth
after gorging ravenous
appetite on verge
to keel (crushing
screened iron curtain garrison)
over 'pon arduously
(belching at every
step, viz process),
while lumbering
to heavenly hearth,
(a Homeric Odyssey) filling
the dining hall with mirth,
thus, I hoop fur
ewe dear reader,
spending your time
whiz wool worth
the effort receiving insight about,
how this logophile really
haint goot much clout
to boast, (nor doth,
he...wrack his mind
to coon sitter) himself devout
lee gifted, (cuz...he aint),
nor does yours truly
make pretenses to flout
any arrogance, bombast,
conceit, et cetera,
yet avers pain
staking effort
(akin to sinking grout)
to plug up gushing geyser of
superfluous excess bursting,
competing, and exploding
beyond capacity of this lout
finding me (a
piggish porcine – person)
hogtied with no
recourse but to pout
reaching pig tailed wits end,
as pertains to this poetic scout,
who welcomes inspirational uber lyft
through swiftly tailored
harried sty hill.
Time was, when I had far less miles and fewer oil changes, I had a mindset that there was a right and wrong to everything. No gray, no pink, no whatever. Serious thought about most anything resulted in a firm resolution, one way or the other. Opinions, filtered through my paradigms, became fact and were stored in a box labeled Conclusions, to be trotted out as supporting evidence whenever challenged.
I don't know how many times, over the years, I would open this box, only to find that many of the conclusions contained were, at best, suspect and in many cases obsolete. This however had no profound impact on my system, and new conclusions were always available to replace them.
Experience taught me that I was not alone in my mindset. Everyone had one of these boxes and was more then willing to open theirs when occasions demanded. Many an hour was spent making arguments based on preconceived and closely held opinions, arduously focusing on a result instead of the prevailing problem. And we never questioned the ultimate decision.
But now, in my later years, I find that while my opinions are still important, they are just that, an opinion. A man much wiser then myself once said “opinions are worth what you pay for them and most people give theirs for free”. Now there are words to live by.
Today, either due to circumstance or suspicion, I tend to give most things a second look. I have come to realize that yesterdays grapes are today's raisins. Everything changes, and it is important I change with it. So, if you were to ask me the same question today as you asked yesterday, you very likely will get a different answer. You will write it off to senility. I prefer to think I am still evolving. Just sayin!
Bob Quigley
Sept 27, 2011
For the longest time, I could not speak your name.
I could not write it; I could not bear to think it.
I was angry.
I was too young, too vulnerable, too powerless.
There was no justice for me, a mere girl.
I hated you.
Every fiber of my being writhed.
You became the scapegoat for my every misery.
I blamed me.
Was it my fault? I did not scream.
I did not fight, I did not kick, I did not wail.
I froze.
When I needed my strength and spirit the most,
It failed me; it sputtered into cold icy droplets.
I dreamed.
Years later, suddenly, for no reason at all,
You came to me in a dream.
You were real.
For the first time, it was not a reenactment
Of the unspeakable things you did to me.
An actual person.
You had not changed much physically;
You will always look the way you did on that day.
But you apologized.
You said you were tired of having to live with it,
You said you did feel the remorse all those years.
Too many years.
No more would you be the perpetrator.
You were tired of living with that weight.
Too heavy a burden.
I thought I would be enraged.
After all, one of my greatest pains back then,
One of the worst emotions that tore through my soul
like a howling, black wind:
the excruciating, heart-stopping fear
that you had no remorse. After all,
there had been no repercussion for you.
No justice for me.
Instead, I felt... understanding.
We have suffered, the two of us, for too many years.
Five years.
I refused to look you in the face, or speak your name.
But at last, after struggling so arduously, I knew:
I forgive you.
Form:
After Alice almost forgot her exhilarating experience
in the dream of her visit to the wonderland,
her imaginative mind drove her often outdoors onto
the open expanse of the undulating landscape
that rolled before her dreamy eyes with animated fantasy.
One night as she was spell-bound,
gazing at the star-crowned sky,
she felt she flew beyond the galaxy
and fell into a wormhole where
she travelled faster than light
from one point to another disparate point
in the space-time continuum.
The survival struggle thrust her
into the abysmal warren,
capturing intrepidly her fading frame
in the fleeting flow of the flexible time.
The disarrayed pieces of her mind were thrown
into the debris of dismal confusion,
she was unable to escape from the chasm,
even if she arduously attempted ad infinitum.
She lost the concept of the present
as she traveled time to the cosmic distant past,
witnessed the glare of the Big Bang
and the birth of the billion suns of the milky way.
A far away dwarf star pulled her then
across the curved space of vacuity
to the future where she saw the Big Crunch,
shrinking the universe
into a singular God particle.
Traveling mystified in the tunnel of time
through the wormhole,
as her psychic alcove merged with spatial infinity
she was sucked into a black hole
that bent her self-control
and deformed her perception of time.
While she was losing mesmerized
the sense of her entity into nothingness,
and started to gravitate toward the point of no return,
she came out once again from the trance of fantasy.
Waiting. The minutes groan arduously.
Somehow, perhaps – my heart fails to beat
with the rush of your momentary attention.
Perched precariously on spikes
Flesh colored, yet artificial –
Manikin fingers, fidgeting.
Mournfully drenched in factious apology.
Our eyes meet briefly, then dart with bashfulness,
Choreographed precisely.
Words uttered repetitively from wine stained lips
Fill the tortuous silence – hesitantly.
Your hollow ghost memory, porous and unsubstantial.
'We can work at this, ' you finally choke
An unfamiliar innocence, grasping -
Your voice childlike in its simplicity.
And for a second, I recognized that old stranger.
I muster a skeptical nod – and smile limply, dismissively
Fingering the rim of my glass.
'And deceive ourselves with promises made before?'
I winced with audacity – impatient of your feeling,
As the words ripped your heart out clean.
You clear your throat in an effort to speak -
Those words never did surface...
My acid tongue, an all too familiar indulgence.
I raise hesitantly, your gaze fixated as I shrink.
A tormenting embrace, clothing saturated in your scent
Sodden with tears unshed.
Humoring your touch with finality –
An unspoken understanding sneered behind the mask.
Face taunt with incomprehension, as sorrow squeezed out the substance.
I avoid the depths of my black dying heart, defiantly.
Anemic with reluctance – I usher the door
A smiling parody of phantom reminisce -
Poisonous and seductive.
An enormous tear got away,
As you lay fragile and broken – bereft.
I’m sorry.
What is fear?
It clutches and binds you;
Its clinch constricts your conscience and gestures.
It degrades and damages you;
Its triumph abolishes your own proficiency to prosper.
It stops and holds you;
Its impeccable knack of holding you still is impassable.
It overcomes and you surrender;
Its will to thwart your approach has you anxious to ensue.
It is burdensome and palpable;
Its load weighs you down and disables your efforts.
It is real and ever present;
Its nearness is felt in your existence as it hides in wait.
It is debilitating;
It is maddening;
It is caustic;
What is fear?
It is controllable and facilitated;
You can clamber over the hindrances it extends you.
It is fallible and erratic;
You can perceive its shifting deeds as it scours for a way.
It is provisional and remedial;
You can tolerate its manifestation or expel it into a void.
It is daunting and probable;
You can be valiant and foretell its vain efforts against you.
It is frail and cognizant;
You can be assured that fear fears itself; it is casually ended.
It is short lived and perpetual;
You can sustain longer than fear, you can evolve as it ruins.
It is ignorance;
It is a curtain;
It is cowardly;
Fear is crushed with the knowledge of the entirety of a state. In these periods of terror we must cast fear in its just position, behind us, and trudge headlong against those who intimidate and threaten the beliefs for which we have battled arduously to safeguard, preserve, and be tolerant of.
Fear is…
Not an option today!