Long Ars Poems
Long Ars Poems. Below are the most popular long Ars by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ars poems by poem length and keyword.
I saw him in my dream
Or my dream saw him.
Girded in instructions,
Sitting opposite as a timed
adder. Listening to my glottis
spray,enchanting words elating
his heart and whipping his ear.
Diverse heads held many heads:
Head with debt and some deposited death.
Sat i with him in closure,
Pushing my lips forward for enclouse:
'I'm a poet',and all of that i've said.
But was veiled yet to me that he had a news.
For so long had i been loquacious,
He pushed forth his words: tentatively audacious.
And like the purposed wind flew.
His product did my brain told me audibly,
But when my eyes untrust themselves,
My brain seemed mute.
He'd said: 'Their is a female poet in hebrew
Her name is 'monume?'.
I'm i sure i got the name.
Even there lies the mistake.
Just returned from hoping around the air,
And the air refused to bear the burden faithfully.
Or you know the name:
That poet of strangling fame?
Ho me,if thou do,
Maybe she's hidden by her variant skill.
Or nature pleaded to have her in her bossom.
'Monume?'
Story Structure
Some writers leave a story at the climax,
like an adolescent male leaving the reader not totally satisfied.
Other writers never bring the reader the climax, of their story.
Good writers take the reader with them.
They start the story with an introduction to the body of characters.
Learning every nuance and curve of each, the writer brings them to life with every stroke of the pen. Gradually easing the reader into the main body of the story.
Building page, by page, and chapter, after chapter,
until the readers are unable to restrain themselves from turning the next page.
Slowly the reader becomes the main character.
Living every moment, feeling every pleasure, pain, and sorrow as slowly the reader reaches the climax. Then after the reader is spent, the writer eases the reader down slowly with the epilogue.
Ending the story with the reader in the afterglow of the tale.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
Ars Longa
It finally happened!
Someone in the East Wing
Goateed a Madonna and redid a Rembrant
a la de Kooning.
A blond with Vogue patterns
is crouched on the hall--
She's eyeing a Van Gogh
eyeing her from the wall.
We judge from the blushes
of blue-rinsed ladies in fur
Rude comments were made
on the audio tour.
The guards commandeer
Donatellos for targets
and are cleaning their pistols
with snips of Vermeer.
The staff in the Art Shoppe
is selling originals
and hanging the copies
in Gallery Five.
They're burning the Monets
they've tattooed Apollo,
crowds clamor outside
to get in on the fun.
Cars circle the gallery
in infinite coils--
curbside parturitions
here a boy there a girl.
I swallowed an apricot seed when I was younger.
Everyone told me it was hard work to grow fruit trees
especially when winter marches south and tries
to pry all those tiny orange dots from stubborn
wooden hands. I kept it safe, though, tucked away
in the pit of my stomach where despair and embarrassment
lived. I fed it reassurances: I swallowed strawberry
sunsets and ate the pithy vernal blossoms of childhood.
I even drank the recommended 36 ozs of filtered water
every day. Years later now, its branches weave their way to my brain
alongside curious blue blood. Apricot juice seeps
into my veins and fills my body with sweet, yellow-orange
nectar. Fruit falls out of my mouth, staining snow white pages
in splotches of nostalgia each time I sit down to write.
Ars Poética (Life’s Ingénue)
I always wanted to die like a hero, but I was never helpful enough.
So I switched to being a genius,
but my time ticked away with the infinite scroll.
I developed a talent for acting and so you casted me
as your life’s ingénue.
Now I’ll be remembered for my endless stream of verses about feeling unmoored.
To live like a poet means to hide the insurmountable
behind shades of gray,
so behind every anaphora, assonance, and ballad
there’s a little bit of you, the pièce de résistance.
And did you know poets weren’t merely entertainers
in the olden days?
If I were a man in Anglo-Saxon times,
I wouldn’t be your royal buffoon.
Instead of being a court jester, I would be tied to the oracle.
So while i dream of dying like a martyr,
my biggest concern shouldn’t be to amuse.
Unlikely to think that you’d suffer upon my departure, my lover,
my owner, my muse.
And when I run out of illusory verses and come to my senses,
lover, you’re on your own…
I saw him in my dream
Or my dream saw him.
Girded in instructions,
Sitting opposite as a timed
adder. Listening to my glottis
spray,enchanting words elating
his heart and whipping his ear.
Diverse heads held many heads:
Head with debt and some deposited death.
Sat i with him in closure,
Pushing my lips forward for enclouse:
'I'm a poet',and all of that i've said.
But was veiled yet to me that he had a news.
For so long had i been loquacious,
He pushed forth his words: tentatively audacious.
And like the purposed wind flew.
His product did my brain told me audibly,
But when my eyes untrust themselves,
My brain seemed mute.
He'd said: 'Their is a female poet in hebrew
Her name is 'monume?'.
I'm i sure i got the name.
Even there lies the mistake.
Just returned from hoping around the air,
And the air refused to bear the burden faithfully.
Or you know the name:
That poet of strangling fame?
Ho me,if thou do,
Maybe she's hidden by her variant skill.
Or nature pleaded to have her in her bossom.
'Monume?'
upon waking
no upon the waking
this waking neither first nor last
cold floor
a warm bulb shivers
the alley cat
still feral
counting its own lives
already half made of sound
arriving before it arrives
casts what your february
in its orange persistence
cast before
the hour of the lamp
is standing without you
one thought
and the thought that will not come
something there
has sunk its canines into
the syllables
your syllables
syllabub curdled
frothing
the syllabus
your mother birthed you with
wet and new
red-ink margins
not rehearsing them
no never rehearsing
conducting them slowly
as an orchestra pit must
when all the musicians have gone home
dry and gone
and no one answers the downbeat
and no one
and no one
two three four
the downbeat has no one left to strike
you lift your hand
the cat walks out of the sound it made
already elsewhere
leaving where it will return
leaving before it has left
Ars Poetica
Horace circa 19 BC gave some sound advice to
poets on the art of writing poetry and drama.
The following thoughts may echo in our minds,
most likely, the intent of what he may have meant . . .
A poem may excite and delight readers with its
imagery, meaning, metaphors, and so much more
A poem may speak of “home” and what it means
to each of us as we grow up and reach adulthood
A poem may excite one’s imagination to learn
of people, places, events, and things in our world
A poem may speak to one’s emotions—
love, lust, hate, happiness, sadness, and more
A poem may speak to palpability—
touching, feeling, embracing, kissing, and more
A poem may address courage—
to stand for something meaningful against all odds
A poem may address a weakness—
cowardice, avarice, and even a temptation
A poem may address humility—
in realizing that being humble can be strength too
A poem may address faith—
believing in yourself and others, and a cosmic destiny
A poem may address morality—
as good and evil, right and wrong are with us always
A poem may address objects and images—
that tickle one’s poetic imagination and certitude
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
January 10, 2018 (Couplet)
ars poetica: brother, 4.25.18
someday, he will sit stiff
on our piano bench
to which he has grown accustomed, and i,
home, will sit nearby
in our cozy armchair,
an old accomplice to my posture.
i can’t remember the last time i saw him relax
this boy, this impossibly-almost man.
he will play me what he is able
of the opus he meticulously composed
in the year since we last met,
in the year since he told me
he wished he knew who i was,
who i had become since moving away.
i can still feel his excitement in the message
i received last month once he had finished.
i will revel in each chord progression,
every stylized transition,
any idiosyncratic modulation,
all exemplifications of his desire to see G*d.
let Him be manified.
and i will congratulate my brother,
for i have grown to admire the passion
with which he worships the One Who Loves.
i will ask to read him this poem.
and during these moments, we will glean
a piece of each other that we usually cannot hold.
i think this is what love can look like:
distant hearts drawing near, speaking
a language without words, the language
that lets them feel they are not alone,
not so different after all.
it'd be indefinable and unknown,
especially unknown! and these unknowns,
they'd complete us...
it'd start with a cosmic sentiment,
a serendipity that's bent
toward this infinite-in,
where love in a radiant bouquet
bursting to blossom would begin --
there, where there's a music in you
eager to play in a mellifluous-voice
which only the heart can hear,
and it'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll,
a riff 'round the sound of a whirl'd
swelling with a kiss of bliss,
'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue,
the Poetic one --
it'd risk absurdity in an u n f e t t e r e d language,
divested with an unbounded-eye,
(not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in,)
that'd look and look and dare to see,
the beauty of this conflicted sentimental-reality,
this creative-destruction outpouring
into the middle of things
where good Homer nods
over a potpourri that is the Art of Poetry