Long Chastened Poems
Long Chastened Poems. Below are the most popular long Chastened by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chastened poems by poem length and keyword.
Sonnet for Antony and Cleopatra
Two Empires Entwined
He gave up Rome to chase her scented air,
A queen whose kiss could rouse the Nile to sing.
Her throne was gold, but love her finer snare,
And he, ensnared, abandoned crown and ring.
They met as equals, each with pride unbowed,
Yet love turned war when passion dared to steer.
In veils of silk and ash, their vows were loud,
But silence came—his sword, her asp of fear.
No sweeter end than death beside one’s flame,
Yet tragic too, when fire consumes the frame.
For love that seeks to rule will stake its claim,
And call devotion by possession's name.
Thus Rome and Egypt met and wept their cost:
A love unbalanced leaves two empires lost.
Sonnet for Héloïse and Abélard
The Chaste Divide
In cloistered halls where mind and passion burned,
Two scholars met in verse and midnight thought.
But virtue’s call their boundless joy upturned,
And flesh was chastened for the sin it brought.
She loved him still when time had torn him down,
And wore no ring, yet wed him in her soul.
His letters bled regret beneath the gown,
Yet dared not ask if she was truly whole.
He taught her love, then walled her voice in vows,
A gift made prison, though he called it grace.
She loved with fire; he sought a sacred house,
But holiness cannot her truth replace.
Love hides in silence, if not met halfway:
Two pens still write, but drift in disarray.
Sonnet for Henry and Anne
The Crown and the Guillotine
He broke from Rome to wear her raven eyes,
A king undone by lust’s impatient flame.
She danced through court with wit that pierced disguise,
And turned ambition into courtly game.
But crowns weigh heavy on a womb unmet,
And favors sour when sons do not appear.
He praised her once; then damned her with regret,
And sealed her fate with whispers sharp and clear.
She knelt for love and rose for blade and bell,
Her neck a debt to power’s shifting tide.
He called it justice—none dared break the spell,
Though all could see how false was kingly pride.
So ends the bride who bore the Tudor stain:
Love, once owned, will never breathe again.
(continued)
Thralldom etched in *****sapiens (mine) DNA
Though your true blue stated civilian
never enlisted nor impressed,
nonetheless I own an opinion
originally embarked on poetic quest
to express purposelessness,
when soldiers rest
at peace i.e. eternally,
many attired courtesy
smart uniform strong with zest.
Psyche steeped, macerated, brewed
as token scapegoat, cue
trumpets Don to toot
courtesy more'n one
nasty shortish brute
weasley chastened me
round mulberry bush
said monkeys chased scaredy
cat me... point moot
regarding... rung me
ragged standing astute
adjacent Thomas Jonathan
"Stonewall" Jackson
(Confederate general during
American Civil War),
his own troops accidentally
fired on him during
Battle of Chancellorsville
in Virginia doth not compute
"friendly fire" unleashed during
one among many hot pursuit
part and parcel of wars,
since time immemorial
gung ho practiced soldier and/or
scared cat neophyte unwittingly shoot
pellets traveling speed of
sound bullet out - gunmetal chute
ordinarily pardoned distinct mistake
versus homicide statute
nonetheless...about
thee (rhetorical question), wherefore
art thou purpose to war,
those slain now paid tribute
since major hostilities of
World War I formally
ended at 11th hour of 11th
day of 11th month of 1918
yet... I question military conflicts
battle hymns constitute
legacy e'er since Homo
sapiens stood erect,
many soldiers of misfortune,
sons of destitute
versus wealthy heirs accepted perception
that war was "a rich man's war
and a poor man's fight"
countless generations ago
deserters fate would mean execute
"the bastard," even second decade
into twenty first century
once sworn in at basic training,
getting discharged (vodka luck), but absolute
zero tolerance quitting before
duty commitment desertion flagrant violation,
no easy task leaving service minus
tribunal meeting severe to prosecute,
thus joining military unlike
accepting any other job
punishment greater than Das boot,
yet patriotism, née jingoism
not ideal, viz conflict resolution,
verstehen, or did this wordsmith convolute?
When urinating into the toilet bowl...
yours truly (me) could not help but notice
while living social at various residences
within Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
the following described phenomena
actually observed quite some time ago
maybe back during
my carefree boyhood days of yore
that the uncontrollable spurt
analogous to a golden arch
of micturition arcing
toward parts unknown
(frequently missing the target altogether,
and wetting the seat
subsequently displeasing the next person
more often than not the missus,
who sits upon wet porcelain goddess)
initially issuing from out
my diminutive male member,
(even when fully erect,
no longer than
a small walking stick
for a lucky leprechaun),
when said jet stream
makes splashy contact
affecting fountainhead into pissoir,
whereby a bathroom
tchotchke of Atlas shrugged,
which non verbal reaction spoke volumes,
the direction water got flushed within potty
subsequently clearly described
a clockwise pattern
whooshing within the labyrinth
eventually getting routed
to wastewater treatment plant
at least here within the bowels
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Actually even after flushing,
or using the sink to wash hands,
the water also drained
mimicking rotation of second
or minute hands of analog time pieces.
After finding myself
flush with excitement
presuming I discovered
some great earth shaking revelation,
a Google search quickly
and immediately chastened
premature ejaculation of excitement
that yours truly stumbled
upon magnificent phenomena
and matter of factly explained
the direction a toilet flushes,
whether clockwise or counterclockwise,
primarily determined
by the design of the toilet bowl
and the water jet's direction,
not by the Earth's rotation
(Coriolis force), which often mistakenly
believed to be the cause;
meaning the flush direction
can vary even within the same hemisphere
due to different toilet designs,
not necessarily consistent
with the "clockwise
in the Northern Hemisphere" myth.
Feather to feather on a branch, this early winter morning,
Are they planning outings for the day or of grave dangers warning?
A predator comes swooping by, a red-tailed hawk in plunder.
As of one mind they fly away, not one is pulled asunder.
These are the winter birds that stay, to face the stormy weather.
They mind the rules of Nature and no one asks why or whether.
The ice and snow, the winds that blow, they do not stop to measure.
For what could be one bird's nothing, could be another's treasure.
The springtime finds them once again, assembled in large groupings.
They know a single bird can be endangered by hawk's swoopings.
The over-powering scents of spring, assault them from the orchard.
The butterflies and bumblebees are courting in the courtyard.
The apple tree is leafing out and showing her pink buddings.
The robin is digging in the mud and making her worm puddings.
My own body is a tingle at the sounds and smells and scents.
A bunny with his ears attuned, keeps watching through the fence.
When summer comes, life has progressed. Among the leaves, nests hidden.
Many a chastened crow has learned that to rob one is forbidden.
Mama and Papa Swallow have filled the needs of their first hatch.
They're teaching them to fly now, to make room for another batch.
The summer flowers are in full bloom, each vying with another
To tell the nectar searching bees, they're better than the other.
The bright red of tall lilies and my roses of red hues
Urge me to plant my gardens with some yellows, greens and blues.
At last in fall, time to relax and talk about the summer.
That Robin's eggs refused to hatch, they agree was a real bummer.
They're gathered now, in larger groups, to leave for other places.
The birds that stay, send them away with wonder on their faces.
A riotous bloom of dahlias grow where other flowers have faded.
The last blooms of summer roses are looking quite outdated.
The snow of winter soon will come to cover up my garden,
But hardy plants will live through snow, fall gave them chance to harden.
3/15/14
While Shepherds watched their flocks by night all seated on the ground
The ewes collected up their lambs and gathered them around
"Listen now," the old Ewe said, "you young lambs listen well,
If you all want to grow to sheep then hark to what I tell
You may see lights up in the sky, or coming cross the downs
They could be aliens my dears, from space, or other towns
They may use flashy coloured beams or other fancy sights
But sometimes they have dim headlamps and indicator lights"
"It does not matter how they come or from what other lands
Aliens are just as bad who drive white transit vans
So lambs who plan to wander off and get up to no good
Can get sheepnapped to Cygnus Prime, or maybe Cricklewood
And whether you are beamed aboard, or bundled in a sack
The aliens have got you, and you won't be coming back
A simple truth for young lambs to, within their noddles, keep
Is alien companionship is never good for sheep"
"It matters not a sci-fi whit dissected in a lab,
Or spiced and served with napkins in a curry or kebab
The preparations, much the same, occuring on the way
Are what you can undoubtedly expect to spoil your day!"
The little lambs were chastened much and some quite overcome
And resolved that they would keep themselves close to their mum
But other things were happening and shepherds on the ground
Beheld an Angel visiting, with glory spread around
"Fear Not", he said for mighty dread had seized their troubled minds
"Great tidings of great joy I bring to you and all mankind"
The sheep reckoned that was not them and were much relieved
It did not really matter if the shepherds were deceived
But still, they thought, 'twas best be off, although no need to hurry
And one or two thought shepherds might improve turned into curry
The night was dark and shepherds eyes were full of holy light
And so the sheep all silently crept off into the night
Leaving shepherds to their fate somewhere among the stars
The sheep hit Bethlehem's nightspots, the clubs, the pubs and bars.
THE MUSE by Anna Akhmatova
This is my English translation of a Russian poem by Anna Akhmatova…
The MUSE
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My being hangs by a thread tonight
as I await a Muse no human pen can command.
The desires of my heart — youth, liberty, glory —
now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand.
Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
I meet her grave eyes — calm, implacable, pitiless.
“Temptress, confess!
Are you the one who gave Dante hell?”
She answers, “Yes.”
Anna Akhmatova was a great Russian poet, and a personal favorite of mine...
The evening light is broad and yellow
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The evening light is broad and yellow;
it glides in on an April rain.
You arrived years late,
yet I’m glad you came.
Please sit down here, beside me,
receive me with welcoming eyes.
Here is my blue notebook
with my childhood poems inside.
Forgive me if I lived in sorrow,
spent too little time rejoicing in the sun.
Forgive, forgive, me, if I mistook
others for you, when you were the One.
I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova:
Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova”
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are...
to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness...
Keywords/Tags: Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetaeva, Russia, Russian, translation, English translation, Muse, thread, pen, heart, flute, veil, Dante, hell, confess, confession, sun, stars, poems, poetry, poets, writing, blue notebook, notebook, journal
There on the shore, before the ocean,
I talked with God- devoid of motion
Like windless, cloudy night I stood
Becoming One with ease and solitude.
In lack of anger and of morbid noise-
Possessed by calm and even voice-
I asked Him why so soon she left
And yet of bliss I felt not bereft.
"Beloved Son! With angels august on a par-
Endowed with insight, thy precious gift don't mar!
She did forsake you but so did transient spring!
They always come...away they always shrink
Until you turn into their sorrow's constant heir
And their sorrow seems so comfortable for you to bear!
But yet, to give the proper answer
To why your heart by weird cancer
Is being eaten to the very bone,
Yet pain you feel as much as feels a stone,
I must go back to the first sunrise-
The one that soared through virgin skies.
The times when man collided with the devil
To share all his knowledge and his evil.
The times when I by anger overrun
Have made them leave the garden of the Sun-
Adam and Eve- the very fruits of my will free
Expelled for wishing freedom, chastened brutally.
It was not jealousy that tossed me in the sinful act
Rather, I was scared to be abandoned, but in fact
I am now lonesome just like long ago
And regret is slowly cankering my soul.
Those were the times when she last was here-
A spirit so supreme, a touch incorporeal.
Existing long before me, no creation of mine,
Than me, the Lord, this being was even more divine.
Disgusted by the unforgiveness and the rage which in me burned
She left this world so mournful and never have returned.
But right before this beauty unwillingly flew off
A word she gently whispered- the word, I think, was "Love".
Since then I have been looking for this majesty unheard
But every time I find this strange and stupid word.
You see, the answer to your question I've made away to sail
And all, it seems, my fault is- I am the God that failed!"
I die
to who I am not
to my anger and resentment
to my fear of ridicule and rejection
to my hurts and misgivings.
to my being vengeful and unforgiving
to my self-sufficiency and isolation
to my contempt of self and others.
I live
for I was born clothed and embellished
in the life of the universe.
Within me is a mystery beckoning to life.
I die
let go of my paralyzing thoughts -
"I am not good enough."
"I can't."
"I am not as good as the other."
I live
faithful to who I am
for I am more than my thoughts.
I am the universe in self-communication.
I am a unique creation; no need to compare.
I am life's vibration
a moment's expression; no need to compete.
Without my fidelity
to who I am, the universe shrivels.
I die
let go of my alienating feelings -
"Hell is the other."
I live with others, giving and receiving
even when it hurts.
Through it all, perhaps, heal one another
for I am more than my feelings.
I came from the Generosity of the universe --
Love that is in everything that lives.
When I condemn the other to hellfire
I, too, am condemned
When I forgive unconditionally
I, too, am forgiven.
I rise in jubilation.
My spirit soars
for within me is a passion for life.
I let life take hold of me
relishing my gifts -- my person, my mind
my spirit, the powers of my heart
believing in the bounty of life
loving others as I love myself
thanking life for entrusting itself to my care.
I live on
in the cadence of dying and rising
cherishing the constant flow of chastened strength
cradled in the womb of transforming love
risking death to live anew for the universe is Life.
And every act of Life is Love.
And every act of Love is life-giving.
If I could find the rhyme Father describing how perfect you are but you my teacher have taught me so I ask the way you would have to be for you are the beginning and end Your love is good and transcends even though I was gone for a time welcoming back with open hands so kind same loving ones that chastened me sore showing me that without you I am always poor The only one who comprehends the making of a man the claim of the self made man truly only you can for you say the word and it is done for you are perfection Father your son
Why can't I do it how I want to do it?
Been told my rhymes are sophomoric - at best
I may violate pentameter but I write what I like
Why must it pass some journal's vapid test?
Behind a block of writers I've been hiding
Cowed by thoughts of editing snafus
Trying to write deep, intensive tomes of valid lore
Only to be chastened and abused
There's elegance found in concise expression
Saying all the world in just a line
No matter that I know this, I belabor all my thoughts
Create elegies for elegance in time
Onomatopoeia is my best friend
And alliteration waltzes through my dreams
Thoughts chatter, clatter, chirp and clunk around about my head
Demanding that they be released in streams
And after I have done what I have done here
Exposed my heart by opening my head
I send it forth with hope that someone will enjoy my words
And get rejection letters only, in their stead
Won't you like my poem - just a little?
I promise it won't be a trite conceit
I don’t emulate the standard ways of any other writer
But you've called my words monotonous and cheap
But yet my writing keeps on remonstrating
That whether it be ballad or blank verse
It should be able to do, just exactly what it feels like
And it finds your journal editing perverse
It says it does not care if it is published
Doesn't want you to consider it profound
For if you did, it might become repetitive and common
And make cool people, like me, put it down
But won't you like my poem just a little?
At the least - you could be non-committal