Long Cervantes Poems
Long Cervantes Poems. Below are the most popular long Cervantes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cervantes poems by poem length and keyword.
A cool September day
We came to La Magdalena of Santander
Next to the Beach of Sardinero
To see the penguins and the seals
And the galleons "Ana de Ayala"
The "Cantabria" and the "Quitus Amazonas"
Stranded in the air
In the blue of the sky, in the sun
Waiting for the sailors to arrive
Who have abandoned them
Carrying a chest in their hands
With a mermaid's heart
Found on the high seas
By the sailor from Santander, Vital Alsar
Singing to sincere love
Like water poured into a basket:
-Be careful, children.
Do not cross the hedges
You may meet pirates
Gentle and cheerful
Who sing to the fire of a skull
That is not known whether it is
Emeterio's or Celedonio's
Who crossed the Pacific
On an oceanic adventure:
“Peninsula of La Magdalena
With its Palace and Royal Stables
Full of green meadows and coastal views
Where Federico García Lorca sang
With his Company La Barraca
Ramón Gaya, Ponce de León
And Santiago de Ontañón
The "Entremeses" by Miguel de Cervantes
"Fuenteovejuna" by Lope de Vega
and "Life is a dream" by Pedro Calderón de la Barca”.
Before going to eat at the Restaurant
“El Mirador de Suso”
On Sobremar Street in Suances
We will go down to the beach of La Magdalena
In front of the Isla de los Ratones
(Mouse Island).
Afterwards, we will go to Bikini Beach
To see if we can see Victoria Eugenia
And Isabel Garay wearing these clothes.
Farewell
I'm tired of Portugal
this small country, not bigger
than a hamlet in Spain
their worldview is what
is seen from an Olive cops
small-minded
and deceitful, bewildering
where the Arabic influence
lingers
decapitated by Christianity
I have family in Spain
who read Cervantes
I don't know why
it could be they are working-class
they value me as an elder
in their clan
I even have a brother
I have never met
he lives in Chicago
the whisper is he is a gangster
The Portuguese is based on
avoiding the truth
at all cost
No matter how long you
live in this fantasy land
they will treat
a foreigner with hidden contempt
Yes, it is time to leave
this country of sheepherders
and lawyers
where the people still hanker
for the days
of dictatorship
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ my quest of happiness seem vain?
Disdain.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
Jealousies.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Absence.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ for my grief
Where shall I turn to seek relief,
When hope on every side lies slain
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ the prime cause of all my woe ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
Love.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
If that be so, I but await
The stroke of a resistless fate,
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
What must I do to find a remedy?
Die.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Change.
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Madness.
If that be so, it is but folly
To seek a cure for melancholy:
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes)
Various Heresies 12
God Had a Plan
by Michael R. Burch
God had a plan
though it was hardly “divine.”
He created a terror:
Frankenstein.
He blamed death on man:
was that part of the plan
so hard to define,
or did he just cut his losses?
Now sleepless he tosses
hearing the screams,
the wild anger and fear
of men in despair.
"Just disappear!,"
he cries to himself
on his fearful bed,
tearful, afraid
of those he misled.
Ah-men!
The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again . . .
pissed off at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when . . .
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;
Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;
Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;
Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . .
for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all damned.
Keywords/Tags: Heresy, Heresies, God, religion, religious, christian, Jesus, divine plan, death, man, men, screams, anger, fear, despair, Divine Plan
Bludgeoning gray towers randomly spread, ingesting the living in their walls and beds.
Skeletal dragons seen through Cervantes eyes yet no whirling windmills in Manchester's skies.
A flag flutters freely where the wind takes it mind, red white and fading as this nation unwinds.
Yesterdays grandeur all around now unseen, cowering in the shadows cast by the greedy and obscene.
Lip service is paid to placate guilty minds but the monsters still rise leaving all beauty behind.
Natures sounds scarcely heard in this city so crass, no foxes no deer no style no class.
A symptom of time, progress and decay, with more mouths to feed and so little pay
And the final betrayal by kinsmen of ours, majority counts for nought and the 3 lions cower.
Self serving parties spewing arrogant polices arrogant buffoons and arrogant half truths, serving their pay masters the rich and aloof.
Looking forward I see with the vision of the blind, democracy is dying as this once great nation sighs. .
True Love Cento
There must be a million ways
To say I love you
But these words will suffice for now
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever wife loved man, then thee.
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
Lying in bed I think about you,
Display thy breasts, there let me
Behold that circummortal purity.
Between whose glories, there my lips I’ll lay,
Ravished in that fair Via Lactea.
Rare bird,
extinct color, you stay in
my dreams in x-ray.
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!"
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish’ d shape, and dangerous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes.,
Poetic sources
Jake Cosmos Aller A Million Ways to Say I Love You
Joshua Beckman Lying in bed I think about you,
Anne Bradstreet To my husband
Valentine Lorna Dee Cervantes
Ben Jonson Song: to Celia [“Drink to me only with thine eyes”]
Morris Egan Bar Napkin Sonnet #11
Jennifer Michael Hecht Love Explained
Robert Herrick Upon Julia’s Breasts
John Keats The Day is Gone
William Shakespeare Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
William Shakespeare The Spring
(from Love's Labours Lost)
William Shakespeare
Sonnet 65: Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
John Updike Penumbrae
(Fighting windmills is the story.)
A fantasy to escape the fall, the void of all
Reality is not that tall when on the horse
Stories plunge the young into the light
Truth stabs the heart once in the hour glass
No one dies while riding by Quixote
or with him either
His lance is stronger than the day is long
And when the book is closed, we know
All of us are braver once we’ve saved
The grave, for another day, to wait
To turn just round the corner made
Edges sharp, much sharper than the blade
*Authors Note: Don Quixote of La Mancha , or just Don Quixote (/?d?n ki?'ho?ti/, US: /-te?/; Spanish: [do? ki'xote] (listen)), is a Spanish novel by Miguel de Cervantes. It was published in two parts, in 1605 and 1615. A founding work of Western literature, it is often labeled "the first modern novel" and many authors consider it to be the best literary work ever written.
...Shakespeare and his pentameter, vital after four centuries,
Cervantes and his man Sancho,
Dumas and Montecristo,
the great tales of Boccaccio,
Dicken and his fine ghosts three.
Beethoven's sonic fury still staggers even jaded minds,
Tchaikovsky made eighteen-twelve
sound utterly epic as well,
Hayden’s string quartets still sell,
even Beatles have immortal rhymes.
Newton and his marvelous brain cracked open the world of physics,
Charles Darwin shocked with his words,
Galileo far orbits observed,
Einstein showed that space was a curve,
built up our science, brick-by-brick.
A Pantheon of perfection, still grand amidst the Roman street,
Notre Dame, lofty and sacred,
Sagrada rises high overhead,
Parliament sports the Big Ben,
the majestic dome of Saint Pete’s.
Who can’t help but like Highlander games with cabers tossed every which way?
Running with bulls puts you to the test,
who can frown at Oktoberfest?
Gotta’ love those Christmas markets,
the traditions of holiday.
To think that two rather large wars invalidate the entire thing?
All mankind is versed in war,
fought in many, many before,
we’ll be fighting them forever more,
doesn’t mean you aren’t worth saving.
Now your cultures face angry foes who believe you should not survive.
Extremists who promote Islam,
socialists who get everything wrong,
‘elite’ leftists who put you on,
dragging you down with their lies…
When, in truth, Europe should grow and thrive.
The mind indeed is a wondrous thing
it has so much fully retained within
therefrom schooling years to old age
but no matter what it's tainted with sin
Only God can deal with such a state
His judgement alone will have its day
to escape this plight requires a sacrifice
only Jesus can be this perfect offering today
Ink that flows so sweetly has no blot
learn well with your pen a voice
speak with real insight and right
guide your pen so make a correct choice
Remember your tongue flows from your mind
enabling the pen to purposefully write
all that's in your own little grey cells
use it so others may know some new light
The pen is the tongue of the mind
speaking with your ink not a blot
let it flow like a long Mississippi
words to encapture your fire on the spot!
(Quote:
"The pen is the tongue of the mind")
Miguel de Cervantes ( 1547-1616)