Long Attila Poems
Long Attila Poems. Below are the most popular long Attila by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Attila poems by poem length and keyword.
Attila, Hannibal, and Genghis Khan
Were comparing the many battles they'd won.
Hannibal boasted o'er the Alps he had coasted
On elephants and conquered the Romans.
Khan's hordes did maraud both at home and abroad
In places they'd ne'er make their home in.
When Attila's turn came, he said, "I'm to blame
For campaigns that make you look like babies.
Of God I'm the scourge, just like lint is to serge,
And I'll brook me no ifs, buts, or maybes.
How these guys (very unheroically) ended up:
Genghis Khan fell off his horse and died of his injuries; Attila died of a massive heart attack on his wedding night after a huge feast of celebration; and Hannibal died of suicide by poison.
The British royal family is front and center this weekend. How unusual is that?
The empire may be gone, but it’s time to recall its ghost, dust it off and invoke the ancient spell of monarchy.
A coronation, The original dog & pony show - God’s kingly sinecure. I can’t even remember the last one.
You have to know who your great, great, great, grandfather was to be nobility-class smug or to don those getups, with medals that would have made Caesar blush and Attila laugh.
The cast is familiar, if somewhat balding, The too-old king, his - whatever -wife.
I can’t help mourning Diana. Accident, treachery or karma, grown men cried at her passing, Shakespeare’s darkened heavens blazed in sorrow and, eventually, even the gray queen bowed her head.
There’s no more honor, in 2023, and if there’s any glory, its light has grown as dim as the glitter of gold.
The fact that the royals are better than us, is axiomatic. Not morally superior, of course. That’s the Pope’s job. The royals are like Britain’s Mickey Mouse, and any civilized man, who’d strike at that, would have to be a fool.
Most of us are too quick to judge
not knowing anything about a person,
and distrust is the outcome of ignorance
capable of setting us apart from civilization;
first gather the facts, not useless rage,
and the belief that anyone can change
draws ourselves to a truth so unknown...
Hear all the words they speak, use intuition;
do they convince you to continue listening,
or throw you off with idignation?
If that voice sounds too unconvincing,
and can't confirm the answers you're expecting,
come up with questions that are pungent:
transforming those ideas with a thought,
and always believe that anyone can change...
Empires have risen, giving the obsolute power
to fearless men who were made into legends;
some were deserving, but most were tyrants of unclemency,
and did shameful and cruel deeds:
torturing or killing anybody who used to dare;
are we learning something from History?
When Attila the Hun rampaged Italy,
Leo the Great...the courageous Pope,
persuaded the savage king
not to sack the city of Rome;
and he also believed anyone could change:
that any heart, with all its brutality and rage,
could replace its rampant fury and grim
with human compassion and mercy...
WALDERE: MODERN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
“Waldere” is an ancient Old English (i.e., Anglo-Saxon) poem that recounts the exploits of Walter of Aquitaine, a legendary king of the Visigoths. In the poem Waldere and Hildeguth or Hildegyth flee the court of Attila the Hun, where they were being held hostage, for Aquitaine. The poem mentions names that appear in “Deor’s Lament,” such as Theodric, Widia and Beadohild. Unfortunately, only 63 lines of “Waldere” survived, in two fragments of around 30 lines each.
Waldere Excerpt
Old English poem circa 1000 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Thus Hildeguth spoke, heartening him:
“Surely the work of Wayland shall never fail,
the savage sword Mimming, when held by a man
who bolsters its blade. Felled, the fiercest fighters
lie broken, bleeding profusely from terrible wounds,
lords and aethelings laid low on the battlefield,
heirs of grim war-graves.
Son of Aelfhere, right hand of Attila,
best and boldest of his warlords,
don’t let your heart faint, nor your courage wilt.
The time has come to summon all your daring,
to gain glory or give up living for a long doom.”
…
Keywords/Tags: Waldere, translation, Hildeguth, Wayland, sword Mimming, man, men, fighters, war, battle, battlefield, grave, graves, Attila the Hun, heart, courage, time, glory, life, living, death, doom
Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgul Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?
Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.
A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?
Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?
Attila Ilhan (1925-2005) was a Turkish poet, translator, novelist, screenwriter, editor, journalist, essayist and reviewer. Keywords/Tags: Turkey, Turkish, Translation, City, International, Leaving, Depression, Absent, Absence, Parting, Separation, Distance, Loss, Break Up, Soulmate, Soulmates, Love, Lovers, Companionship, Passion, Desire, Longing
Having been born in legendary Italy,a country
as old as the stones of the Via Appia,
made me recall the fiery image of Attila...
the barbarian from Hungary,
who dared to defeat the mighty Romans:
by sacking their imperial city with clanking swords!
Attila might have become the new emperor,
if he hadn't abandoned that land he came to conquer,
but golloped away...vanishing into the unknown:
remorseful or giving up on becoming great;
and some agree that he was as untaimed as a lion...
with a chilvalry to melt any woman's heart!
Many great battles were fought on this soil,
fortified by faith,valor and blood:
an Italy immortalized by Vergil,
Dante,Davinci,Michelangelo and Verdi: a legacy continuing today;
and I, as her native son, like to lead the way...
to be among these and not vanish into nothing!
Where I walked as a teen, castles rose towards
crimson skies to capture my fancy and hold me in wonder,
until dusk came with the tinkling bells; and sweet mother
called me...her voice echoing,with affectionate loveliness,
amid the pine trees and a garden of blooming roses;
there, at the gate's entrance, she waited with flowers!
From a tiny spring, flowing from the snow-capped mountains,
I drank the purest water and saved some in my canteen...
while my companions threw rocks at each other and told jokes;
and none of us were older than seventeen!
O golden days,return to vivid memory...
when we are taken by reminiscence to renew vows of loyalty!
By a bright lamp,I'll write these memoirs 'till morning,
and whenever sleep comes...I'm ready to hop in bed,dreaming
to be in Amalfi or Positano along the rugged coast of emerald...
listening to the murmurs of the gleaming sea,so old,
overlooked by the immobile stars and hear a happy mandolin play
a serenade and to be taken into eternity!
I'm finally there, retracing each footstep on a stony path,
running through the streets of my fled youth;
wouldn't I be happy to stay and find a place to rest?
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Attila the Hun was a kindly old soul
He raped and plundered the land
With the aid of his murderous henchmen all
A truly psychotic man
The kind of man you'd like as a friend
If you love to ransack and pillage
Hitler was another of these murderous souls
Marauding each town and village
Need more of the likes of Benito Mussolini
Such honourable leaders all
But I harken back to Attila the Hun
His exploits leave me enthralled
May seem like I've tumbled over the edge
But I blame it on dear Eileen Ghali
She poked and prodded me into submission
Could no longer dilly and dally
© Jack Ellison 2013
Dedicated to my dear good friend Eileen Ghali!
Zee was a tumultuous force to be taken seriously.
Men trembled in their boots when she was on her way.
The battles she fought with her centaur furiously,
Made other armies quake, run, hide, and pray.
We called her Zee, no one got close enough to know why.
She was muscular, fierce, and mighty in her majestic ways.
One called her Queen Zee once, and I do not lie,
she cut his mouth with a blade with beautiful sun rays.
Zee is here, the warriors will say, and it races through the ranks.
Your blood turns cold when you hear it, for she is frightening.
You wish now that you had battle axes, hatches, and tanks.
Because she and her centaur come into the fray slashing like lightning.
I only saw her once, but I was careful that she not catch my eye.
Her feats of daring are not rumors by an inventive word player.
I ran away in fright, hid in a glen, watched so many of my friends die.
Because they did not believe the stories, of Zee, the ultimate slayer.
Special powers has Zee, known to Joan of Arc and Attila the Hun.
Most of the warriors were easily chased, sliced, and savagely begotten.
For to go into battle against the invincible Zee is clearly quickly no fun.
Seeing her centaur come over the hill that day will never be forgotten.
I hear Donald Trump
would love to bring to Republican plutocracy
what Abraham Lincoln presidented
for uncivilly warring democracy,
but Lincoln's emancipation proclamation
doesn't sound like straight white might
is rightly winged
in not so healthy presidential TrumpLand.
What remains most easily to see,
transparently white
privileged to me,
is Donald Trump
as a Ronald Reagan no fun rerun,
a bit of white-faced black
and mostly relentlessly caste
as racism already past,
although not really
quite.
Perhaps if Ronald
had been born as comfortably
as Donald,
then he too would never have worked with his body,
and not so much played with his little lonely hands,
to make an honest LincolnHouse living.
Unlike Donald,
Ronald actually had experience
working for his mortgage.
Well, almost anyway.
Ronald at least had to act as if he could work to make a living,
and on occasion actually remember some honest lines on cue,
while Donald invests more in privilege grabbing gestures
against at least half of our more newly enfranchised
resident population.
And, Abe had some adolescent and young adult experience
with manual labor
and cooperatively owned an attorney at lawyering business,
while for Ronald,
and televised Donald,
these were acting privileged caste-ing skills
as comforting as heroic horseback riding
without a solid saddle
or respectful rein.
So, no, Donald,
you're no Abe Lincoln,
and only in your happiest imagination
are you as good at play acting President
as was "caste-blind"
and deaf
and unwise Ronald.
You're just another ornery autocratic Donald,
not even economically effective
at playing sustainably wealthy Republican.
Perhaps Attila the Hun
is a more logical progenitive inspiration for TrumPublicans,
with Donald playing their final post climate-trauma non-action;
most un-ecologically anachronistic
to employ white overlooking black not quite film stars
with patriarchal red stripes
when so much polyamorous full-color talent
waits in more multiculturally fresh-aired green
bicamerally intelligent wings
of healthy democracy.
Hold up that sword
when truth is violated...
don't destroy everything and everyone:
only evil must end for peace to survive!
Fight better than a warrior with a bloody urge
who seeks victory and revenge;
what satisfaction is there in being alive...
after all enemies are wounded and gone?
They would never learn love, but die tormented
as marthyrs, slaves and peacemakers have!
Hold up that sword,
by speaking your command
when peace is broken
and havoc spreads quicker than fire...
to bring all another dire:
remember Attila when he ransacked Rome?
Chalithra, have more compassion
towards mortified people who have been exploited:
you must explain to them that's wrong to be enslaved...
without having the vision of a place called, " Home. "
Barbarians were those who trashed everything
and killed, but they lived in different times:
violence against order and civility;
today there's another evil arising:
greed for power against truth and humility...
Chalithra, carefully choose your allies!
Character: Chalinthra