Long Arena Poems
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Today I had a strange experience,
Not in this group but in another group.
‘Poetry and Lit'rature' it is not,
In ‘Written or Revealed Poetry' thread.
Asked, have I written poems in my life?
I found it fit to answer it this way:
I'm writing this in reply to a miss,
I have never written poems in my life.
Have wondered where these poems all come from,
From human intellect or nature's store,
To be picked up at moments of revelation;
Or synthesized in rotten human brain!
I was inspired to write these wicked lines,
By those whose verses written were in sand:
Let us debate poetry in poems,
I hope she'll someday answer me in kind.
I 'am not doing anything again,
But asking questions all have answers for.
I have my answers, you can have yours,
This not an illiterate arena,
Where someone asks questions and another from,
Some academic circle answers them.
Some anxious are, to questions throw around,
Some eagerly waits there to answer them;
This not such school or college where one can,
En'tertain answers not from others too.
I know I'm Alexander Pope's close kin,
I stop here, to read Temple of Fame again.
I regularly take part in discussions in a famous social site of experts and writes in two special groups Poetry and Literature and Language, Literature & Criticism. A discussion on ‘Whether Poetry Has To Keep Form' became heated and I had to remain at the receiving end of severe but very polished criticism for some of my view points insisting on form for poetry.
At last I was asked, ‘You do not seem to have understood the mechanics of poetry like many of us; have you ever read a poem or at least try to write one'? I decided to write my reply in the poetical form and invited the others to respond in the like manner and continue the discussion on poetry. In my native land, in Malayalam literature, there has been a long history of poets writing letters to each other in the poetical form, creating a rich branch of literature in itself. In truth, almost all Indian languages had this kind of a branch of literature, and it had become an interesting and rich feature of Indian literature. I replied as shown here.
A Poem By P.S.Remesh Chandran. Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books. Trivandrum.
Read more about our views on poetry and about our various poetry editorial services in http://poetryeditservice.blogspot.in/
Two opposing warring factions, meet upon the AstroTurf
Battlefield, in the sporting arena of Victory or agony’s defeated,
Warriors of the pigs skinned javelin, tackle each other at the
White lines of collisions honor, marked by the numbered banners
Of the fifty yard kick off point, yielding unto the pillars of the
Goal post of champions!
In the heat of battle these heroes of gladiatorial games, called
The NFL, thrill and chill their fans to the inner bones of the
True sportsman living within all us, born in this great nation,
Known as the U.S.A.
In this victorious field of dreams, no illusionary visions exist,
For these powerhouse gentlemen, gain each footings sacred
Ground by athletic skill and sheer raw brawn!
To the meek goes the booing of the fumble, to the strong
The million dollar playoff championship, cheered on by their
Ever loyal crowds of adoring fans, whom are enthroned by
This sport of endurance and strength of will!
In this modern coliseum of champions, no touch down goes
Without a standing ovation, or Styrofoam’s thumps up signal
Of approval, in these concrete surroundings this is truly a time
Honored sport of traditions, to be remembered in the
Historical records of the future as a classical game,
To challenge the strongest of athletes!
Golden are the rings given as victory’s insignias,
But in the hearts of the players and their loyal fans,
The price of the championship game is worth the cost
Of every single ounce of sweat and exaggeration, shown
On this epic field of battle!
As the crowds roar, with excitements thrilling kick offs
Point of the triumphant, field goal point scoring, their
Human wave of appreciation, is set at the release level
Of thousands!
In the homes of America the volume levels of the cheering
Is off the ratio scales charts, as chairs go flying backwards,
And Bowls of snacks explode everywhere, for the winning
Play has just been committed, and the championship team
Takes the final center field of the victorious!
Hurray for the great sport known as football,
The American sport of champions has again earned
Another season of splendor in the turf war of victories,
Behold our favorite pastime, may this pigskin colors never fade,
As our flag shall forever wave, for this is truly the great
American sport of athletic skill personified!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Make haste to befriend the toro meanly reared away from spectator prying eyes
by dread alone the bull is nurtured and prodded to terrify
and when at last the ranchero’s silhouette appears in the arena it charges
Wake! India! Wake!
There are no greater mysteries than those your scientists can unravel
the only mysteries that persist are those drummed by priests into your brains
even a helpless Stephen Hawking can pierce the Aryan mystery by silent reflection
Wake! India! Wake!
Let those who seek power in the polls seek it for their own sakes
sooner or later sooner than later they too will pass away
their power gnawing at their bones will feed the etherising flames of their pyres
Wake! India! Wake!
Let those who seek to challenge their power challenge it for their own sakes
they too will rot in the chains they have willingly chained themselves in
for they too seek power for the sake of power and for theirs and their own comfort
Wake! India! Wake!
And let them all pass over you you who have borne in quiet pain
mauling under the pretext of mournful migrations and the Mughal might
Mohenjodaro and Harrappa notwithstanding Vijayanagar and Kaveripumpattinam
Wake! India! Wake!
Do not for a moment think your sons have deserted you
nor your daughters gone to spawn with other spouses under other suns
your needs are their needs your tears their blood coursing in their veins
Wake! India! Wake!
If you had woken up earlier to tend to your shores to tend to the marauders at the border
letting only the lone Kshatriya exert his martial art abused by fine courtly comfort
you would not now wonder how a Rajput court at Mewar drove Akbar to such lengths
Wake! India! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 10)
Oodles Of Google Doodles...
visually delicious as germane strudels
the following cooked years ago
courtesy me noggin awash with noodles.
Yours truly crafted remaining poem
around 27th July 2018
idea arose within me cerebral dome.
...As poetic theme came to mind
in a Serge without a waiver
thus, I took a virtual Page
from Google LLC to slaver
with little effort
in an acceptable
rhyming rant and raver
about said American
multinational technology company
that rode dot com bubble,
where other startups did quaver
specializing in Internet-
related services and products
rolled out amidst
much fanfare palaver
though odd, how such an obvious
idea hit me like figurative brick
over thine noggin
upon instantaneously espying
Lyudmila Vladimirovna Rudenko
Soviet chess player, and second
women's world chess champion,
from 1950 until 1953
when bitta bing bitta
chitty chitty bang bang
that eureka momenta did click
mental wheels and cogs
as if...an oil derrick
hit a mother lode, thence subsequently
inducing automatic flick
as latest feted persona grata
gets done up in bold face and/or Italic,
nonetheless a commendable
spontaneous fantastic burst
of inspirational magic
commensurate with mine
modest prolific quixotic
of course, I WON'T applaud
idea de jure as terrific
and puzzle over, how such "a ha"
brilliant idea did not occur to this -
Ok la home ma sooner
ushering world wide
webbed trumped "FAKE"brouhaha
sooner to the mind
of this humble caca
Louie, who admittedly
feels tidy bowl flush with
goo goo Lady gaga
(tony the TIGER FEELING great,
a mild euphoria if gifted
as lottery winner)
over the top smugness -
unaware of jeering ha ha ha
within dark internet arena,
where the much maligned,
loathed, and feared Jaw
bar wall key (jabberwocky)
dwells ready to pounce
outsize egos hated
like an incorrigible outlaw
hmm...perhaps cognizant
ex post facto, I set
a deadly faux paw
forever remembered as
ornery oaf forced to eat raw
bits (hexadecimal at that!)
sucked in via last turkey in straw
that broke the camel's back.
May nine nineteen eighty was great,
Being the day of his calling;
Brother Eduardo Manalo
Had received the noblest blessing.
The day of his ordination
Signaled his rise in his duty;
His exceptional performance
Was seen inside the ministry.
He became an assistant dean
For Evangelical Studies;
Doing all his divine functions,
And his responsibilities.
On twenty-seventh of July,
In the year nineteen eighty-four;
He became Metro Manila's
Another coordinator.
Then came the Church's eightieth year,
He took his oath as Deputy;
To help the Administrator
In leading the flock's entirety.
He‘s prepared for fifteen years by
Then Executive Minister;
The torch was passed to him by God,
After the death of his father.
He firmly strengthened the brethren
Who, just like him, were in sorrow
With the demise of Ka Erdy,
As his deep love did overflow.
He showed courage and consistence,
In the midst of persecution;
Sacrificing his interest,
He valiantly made decision.
Through the modern technology,
He officiates worship service;
The brethren all over the world
Are truly edified in bliss.
The true message of salvation
Has reached all but one continent;
He preaches the genuine gospel
With power and noble intent.
He has successfully finished
The great Philippine Arena;
The project has been constructed
At the Ciudad De Victoria.
Excellent events of the Church
Have caught the Guinness' attention;
The world records have been broken,
Bringing honor to God's nation.
Thousands of houses of worship
Have been built amid poverty;
The work of the Lord's mighty hand
Is witnessed in every country.
When the calamities happen,
He immediately provides aid;
Relief, rescue, and assistance
Have been well organized and made.
Preachers of other religions
Have come to know the righteous way;
Pastors and priests have joined the Church,
Without a doubt, without delay.
The covid-nineteen pandemic
Has not deterred God's people;
Every household worship service
Feeds each servant's mind, heart, and soul.
Forty years have quickly passed by,
Since he's blessed by the Almighty;
We will never forget the date,
Early May nine nineteen eighty.
Topic: 40th Anniversary of Bro. EVM's Ordination (May 09,2020)
Dear Poetic War
I'm here to inform you to change your name to (War Shoe.)
Warlock doesn't even fit you!
I have many ways to insult you.
I have to play nice, can't you see all them evil eyes!
Poetic Warshoe the only talent you poses is the word LOCK!
No need to try and crush what you can not see
All you are is another loser who can't let me be.
You silly jail bird, you sound more like a game of Monopoly
Its my turn and I hold your ticket to get out of jail for free.
Don't worry Warlock, Board Walk is owned by me.
Washing your couplets down with a cup of tea.
I laughed so hard your words almost made me pee.
Warshoe, why are you jumping on me like a little flea?
The only stinger you have belongs to a bumble bee.
Poetic thug you are messing with the wrong killer bee
Sorry I told you I share my fate with Nate!
Go grab some more help from your psychotic mate.
Raid I will spray on your strategies you poetic bug.
You have no class to be a Warlock.
The only thing you master is being a poetic thug.
Go back to playing dominoes, cards, and chess.
Your poetry smells like potpourri.
My demons will hit you with an epic battle of success.
Hunting me is the way you want to waste commissary.
I will enslave you to worship the grounds my feet caress
Challenging me will be the best thing you've had in 5 years.
First I will send you this letter with a small request.
Look down first before you think you pushed me over the cliff.
I own the crown causing massive damage to your quest.
You will never dominate my battlegrounds, I will end you in a swiff.
Your sword will be conquered in my arena, bringing you down to a rest.
I will make you suffer begging for mercy and forgiveness.
For trying to step up to the best.
Warshoe you already failed my test.
In this game you will never beat me at my own contest.
Your heart I won't eat I will feed that to my guest.
Warshoe its time to rip you out of the shadows where you hide.
I will LOCK you in my WAR of hell.
Shackling you in a fetal position as we collide.
Your fear will spread for everyone to smell.
I will end your poetry with no pride.
I will post venom in your abyss through out your cell.
A poison so rough now bend over and open wide.
Warshoe by the time this is over you will bail.
And I P.D. will still have you under my spell......
by;P.D.
RAPPERS & LEGENDS IN THE UFC
In the Octagon, where fists collide,
All Eyez on we, the view is worldwide.
This battle's a wild mix of might & rhythm,
But when the ref calls time, it's all for a gold limb.4
Tupac enters first with ferocity and might,
Throwing rhyme-punches at anything in sight.
Shakur is a warrior with words that pierce,
In the cage, his passion is so fierce.8
Biggie Smallz steps in, swagger and style,
His lyrics hit hard, his punches fueled by guile.
A heavyweight with rhymes so smooth,
In the UFC, his flows would make crowds groove.¹²
Eminem jumps in, the lyrical genius unbound,
With lightning speed, his opponents confound.
The real Slim Shady proves he's the lyrical master,
His rapid-fire knocks out opponents faster.¹6
Here comes Kendrick Lamar, a UFC pro.
In the octagon, he brings the flyest flow.
A warrior poet, he weaves a lyrical spell,
Knocks-out his foes before the jingle of the bell.²°
50 Cent's in the ring, ice cold, bold & untamed,
Knocking out opponents, leaving them maimed.
When he brings the Gorilla Units, there's tremor
But when he's solo, he's sharp as a razor.²4
Snoop Dogg's turn, laid-back, swag & chill,
His flow hypnotizes, his punches kill.
Unleash him in the cage, watch him brag
With hit smash, he's always on track.²8
Lil' Wayne joins the fight, tattooed and bold,
His wordplay stings, his punches take hold.
Young Mulla won't back down from any rap mission,
His punches hit hard like a lyrical collision.³²
Wiz Khalifa enters, smooth like no other,
His punches light up foes, he's a stunner!
With his cold-chill swag & cool demeanor,
He brings the smoke & reigns like the guvnor.³6
And last but not least, Travis Scott takes a stand,
His melodic punches echo through the land.
Trap Music King with energy on full blast,
In the Octagon, his performance would last.4°
As the rappers clash in this UFC rap quest,
Their words like punches put their skills to the test.
Each with their own unique vibe and flair.
Envision the battles they would share.44
As the crowd roars, this sight appeared sublime,
Their applause jubilant, returning us from the dream,
For in this arena, these rappers reign supreme.47
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? December 2023.
Those trademark circular elements of style in vogue every four years
When the crème de la crème of the athleticism
presents itself on the world stage
Suspending and transcending any present day internecine conflict
Allowing, enabling, and proffering the five continents
And gathering of top-notch mental, physical and spiritual prowess
Extant with adroit prolific curved arabesques on one corner of the globe
That (like Noah with his Ark kit) human techno wizardry
Bedazzles viewers charting unparalleled feats
Whereby the human body defies the laws of physics and challenges gravity
Fielding a hypnotic colorful tapestry
Whereby the woof and warp of any melancholy moody blue, mellow yellow
Gunmetal green, roman a clef real time red doth white out
The dark knight, temporarily sequestered in a bishopric
Of faux queenly royalty, where a pawn
out the parapet of her castle keep
She imbibes requiem toward protesting the limits of *****sapiens
Inherent parameters, where fluid dynamics
of each most supreme contestant
Sans his/her specialized arena
Further the prior leg holds with free from arm-twisting head lock
And make a mockery of invisible manacles
Purportedly and formerly believed to tether man/woman kind
With unbreakable hidebound genetic/ chromosomal restraints
But nay to those who professed impossibility against the reins
Boxed and fenced in by bow rings set by Mother Nature
Well nigh obsolete and superfluous
What with evident burlesque stellar performances
Leaving the spectators starry eyed with collective mouths agape
As polished prominent performers blithely offset previous milestone
Setting a new yardstick to measure the Olympian capacity
That Heracles and Zeus would most likely deem
as some sort of magic trick
Yet lo, the sensational and majestic pageantry absolutely serious
Lying to rest what used to be merely amateur games
Whereby most any novice could coax a charade, façade, travesty et cetera
Without fear of getting flagged, but phenomenal exhibitors of today
Can nearly bank on netting a truckload of worldly wide wealth
Whereby a hand-made Scottish tartan Harris Tweed welcome mat
Ushers August men and exuding mettle and iron clad dedication
With pomp and circumstance into pantheon of future legends!
Form:
Ballet of Death
As trumpets prepare emotions
This sordid art knows well
My hooves stomp impatiently
Raising clouds of dust
Enshrouding my entrance
With shouts and whistles
A crowd's tense moments
Engulf this gladiator's arena
Demanding courage and blood
Far away
The grassy hills
Of his Ganaderias estate
Stands my sire
Now out to pasture
Erect and proud
Amidst sadness retirement brings
Once close to arena fame
Determined better as stud
He raises his head
The air has changed
He knows the scent of fear
The distance it can travel
He scrapes the ground
The matador awaits the pageantry
I shoulder my pen bars
Holding back muscled power
Energy primed for destruction
My challenger readies his cape
I squint at the sun through dusty air
A beast's freedom that might have been
Were not this
My first time
Most likely
My last time
Such brutal grandeur awaits
Stage one Banderilleros
Astride proud mounts
Parading to applause
Preparing to tempt my will
Their colorful presence
To test my vision
The picadors await stage two
Armed with lance
Saddled atop padded and blindfolded steeds
Ready to break my will
What will their first piercing feel like?
Will my neck be numb for the rest
Or will it but set afire my zeal to live?
Banderilleros anticipate stage three
Their barbed banderillas
Flag-like with colored local papers
Held ready to weaken my neck further
My loins tremble with hope
Knowing my destiny is to charge
Expend my energy
Then... trample my own blood
As the magnificent matador and I
Perform our finite ballet
This dance of death
My enclosure's bolt is about to be lifted
Soon
Very soon
The matador's flourishing cape
Its crimson and gold tricks of ecstasy
Will swirl about and around
The stoic-faced tempter
Suddenly grinning with anticipation
While soiling himself
The piercing will come
I'll not allow pain any glory
I will drool
Defecate
Urinate
My legs will buckle
The sword now in my neck
The nerves failing my brain
Blood loss weakening my heart
Suffering passing quickly
I'll at last experience
Man's insane pleasure
My fallen passion
Bathed in blood
Dragged away by rope and horse
So many hours
So many training capes
So many horses taunting me
So many chances to fail into freedom
Chances to be respected
Like my father
Faithful father
I will miss you
I was nineteen that summer
when I met him at a buck-out,
and I was totally smitten
by all the Cowboy charm he had.
I thought that he was rugged,
(and undeniably handsome),
then that bull slammed against the fence
and busted him up pretty bad.
I was surprised when he showed up at the dance,
he was battered and bruised but smiling,
and I heard him talking and laughing,
still high from the rush of the ride.
He said “You gotta’ pay the fiddler
if you want to dance to his tune”,
then he drifted across the floor,
said “Let’s dance” as he reached my side.
Mama told me I’d be sorry
if I ignored her and took up with him,
and I really hate to say it,
but I guess that she was right.
But when I review my memories
I know I’d do it all again,
for that “Eight Second Feeling”
of our first long kiss that night.
We used to dance for hours,
in the kitchen and on the porch
and laugh about owein’ that fiddler
and what his pay would be.
But lately there ain’t been no dancin’,
just long strings of awkward silence,
as his eyes look far and distant
and not so much at me.
Seems his spirit has grown uneasy,
as I listen to him talking
and realize it’s still Rodeo
that truly holds his heart.
Oh, I don’t mind coming in second,
heck, life is like that sometimes.
But knowing I’m invisible,
well, that’s the hardest part.
I suppose I should be angry,
but I just can’t find it in me,
‘cause I know what it’s like
to love something just that way.
I felt it when I first saw him,
in the arena and on the dance floor
and I still feel it sometimes
when I watch him walk away.
I’ve helped him struggle to pay the fiddler,
and it breaks my heart to see him weary,
so I stand in silent acceptance,
as I watch him pack his things.
I understand his leaving,
I know he won’t be coming back here,
our life together, a lesson,
one that time always seems to bring.
I walk out past the horse pens,
pull the gate shut…and I lock it,
hear my mare start to nicker
as the trailer pulls away.
I’d like to say I’ll miss him,
his past still holds my heart.
But we danced to the fiddler’s tune
and the final payment came due today.