Long Cholera Poems
Long Cholera Poems. Below are the most popular long Cholera by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cholera poems by poem length and keyword.
Did Robert Browning say it best when he
wrote, “winter takes the old ones”? Possibly.
Bronchitis, pthisis, whooping cough, T.B. –
they ran amock in 1863.
I trust it’s not too jarring if I jump
from modern miseries (ecoli, Trump)
to mid-Victorian London’s social rump,
and John Snow (doctor), and the Broad Street Pump.
The City Hall had never heard of germs.
They dealt with filth and foliage and firms,
and knew that there were parasites called worms.
But cholera? They couldn’t come to terms.
The water pump in Broad Street was infected.
Bacteria, back then, went undetected.
“Miasma” and “air pressure” were suspected:
how could the population be protected?
Oh lucky London! By sheer happenstance,
within the metropolitan expanse
young Doctor Snow was working, and by chance
had learned of recent studies made in France.
“They’re tiny animals, too small to see.
I’ll prove it, if you trust the Pump to me.”
Officials sneered with incredulity:
but, faced with daily deaths, gave him the key.
He knocked on every window in the quarter,
and showed (despite initial mayoral hauteur)
that cholera was carried in the water.
And, single-handed, John Snow stopped the slaughter!
rain comes rain
rain wets my pain,
wets my dust of gain,
cleans my walking lane,
find I inside a path of sane
rain comes on empty green fields
cows, calves, goats run away dancing
rain comes and wets nature
dogs, cocks, hens move on my doorway
sparrow, tailor birds soaked in the grove
flapping wings and feathers seek warm
rain comes and wets coconuts and betel-nuts trees
raindrops fall as trees tears
rain comes on the poorly pond
fishes are playing hide and seek around
kingfisher waits to make a dish of fish
in food natures allow- no bond
rain comes on paths, quay, field
a passerby walks with an umbrella
ship discharges goods
soaking child play mirthfully
rain comes on little boys and girls of the village
they use banana leaves on the head like an umbrella
rain comes on the desert
quenches its thirsty heart
rain comes around us
venomous, non-venomous snake crawls on frog liberally
earthworms cultivate soft field gamely
rain comes, water plays its rule over all
urban drains are full of naughty- garbage water
urbane street and footpath flooding
skyscraper building floating on immobile stinky water
rain comes unsurprisingly
cholera, diarrhea touches neighbor slum child
rain comes, roaring flood attacks terribly
dead crows, cows, dogs, mice in the urban dustbin
rain comes, soggy feelings on my sight
I do not find my pet cat and tame dog
rain comes, flooding, around my flooding
the street tong tea stall flooded away
supplying daily foods-goods are short
the tariff rate is high
rain comes with a price hike
rain comes but the doctor does not come
water cause patient increases day by day
rain comes with snow coolness
cough harasses beloved voice
I'm not hearing a welcome song of rain
rain comes and I come-
by the right eye, I see elated life of around nature
by the left eye, I see gloomy death is nature’s feature
-August 13, 2018 Chattogram
*SON OF NOBODY*
I was born in the Trenches
In the walls and roof with no fences
Drank from the seasonal rivers
Trust me we knew no povereties
We labour to live and not to gather properties
On the water different catch was our only envies
And when father went hunting
Meaty dinner was sure with my aunties
I was a son of nobody
And i lived with no enemy
Aside hunger I had no worry
Simply respect for my elders
My care for my little brothers
Much love and prayers to my ailing mother
And cold fear to my scolding father
That was my life, a son of nobody
Known by nobody aside my clans
We speak less in in the midst of numbers
Contented in my little
I craved nothing much than stomach
Take no candy from a stranger
Just be nice and pleasant
For the good you do to others
And the pain you inflict on the vulnerable
You'll live to reap the reward before you die
The simple life rules mama taught us
I was a son of nobody
Living to wear danshiki
Dancing with the masquerades
Our joy at the new yam festivals
Dusty feet at the market square
Stamping to the rhythm of the ancient drums
Cheering to the women in aso-oke
Wrapped round their bumpy chests
That was my joy a son of nobody
Under the thatched sheds made from raffia
Where mosquitoes bring no fever
But the angers of the gods pollute the streams with cholera
In my beautiful village where snake venom never kills
But the abandoned diety can cripple the children with polio
Tales of our grandfather's told at moonlight
Hero that fell the elephant with his cap
That was how we wrapped our days
Son of nobody had his lullaby
I'm just a son of nobody
Living my life with no worries
Dreamt of a day I'll be somebody
Meet a princess from ivory
Make plenty children of my own
Whom I'll tell my stories
Here I am a child of many glories
As told in the witch doctor's story
All the talks and thoughts feel funny
Because after the story of the big glory
Here I'm still a son of nobody
Sudan 1993 and an ugly famine reaps its prey
malnourished bodies make it difficult to believe
that women were created from the rib of men
it is the most vulnerable who carry the weight
if you pardon the cynical pun on the grotesque
the lens is open and a vulture remains on guard
carrion in the making seems to die on the right
side of the frame and the wrong side of history
a little bird like face hands buried in minute hands
a grunting beak not afar as if smacking hungry lips
vultures have a serious problem with their reputation
but this particular images reaches down much further
into gut wrenching emotion of insatiable repulsion
for the record it is not the grim raptor who was ringed
but the little girl who wears a UN feeding station band
in all honesty the predator is not as close as it seems
a nearby manure heap serves its overfed companions
but the photo fails to escape the onlooker’s discomfort
however they wish it would fly away on prayer or wings
one vulture a Pulitzer Prize and millions of birdwatchers
although Kevin Carter the award winning photojournalist
followed all rules and was forbidden to touch anybody
for fear of spread of disease like cholera or meningitis
he was pilloried for only taking the shot and despairing
instead of well what exactly should the bird have told him
we are not privy to the fate of the iconic avian marauder
do not know what we would have done in such situation
maybe niggling bird song made us contribute to charity
but the other protagonist died in a red pickup truck with a
hosepipe and the girl’s parents told the press she’d survived
11th July 2020
Reasons to be happy
Why should I be happy sir?
I have a job and a secure marriage,
I can walk,
Talk,
And use my hands freely,
I don’t have cancer or cholera or glaucoma.
I don’t have to run away from a war,
Across deserts, over walls or seas to abroad.
I can speak freely and say what’s on my mind,
Unlike in China, Zimbabwe or Venezuela.
I don’t have to queue to get food parcels and clothes,
Or sleep on the streets holding signs for loose change.
I wake up,
Use hot clean water to wash,
Dress in a suit.
I’m not persecuted for colour,
Race or religion,
I can listen to music of choice, people of choice
Get up in the morning, sleep in a bed at night.
God must have spilled stars liquid
on His brooding Gabriel Marquez Garcia…
weaving, crushing and shaping words
lacquered with magical realism. But this
is not his only primal appeal; his Latin veins
spread a scenic collage of life pierced by decades
profound…meaningless then meaningful like
a glue of patience in ‘Love in Time of Cholera’,
the alchemy of serendipity flowing
oh so slowly along eternity’s belt and hanging
angel dreams on a wax, as if his pages bleed with
quivering fingers that speak of growing old when
men stop loving and serenading the moon…and
God spills me with stars climbing inside my bones;
my sacramental eyes collapse on Garcia’s hands
tasting his need for cities to become one family,
transcending more than ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’.
................................
Your Favorite Artist Contest of Anthony Slausen
*A dedication to Nobel Laureate Gabriel M. Garcia
who passed away last April 17, 2014. He wrote
'Love In the Time of Cholera' and 'One Hundred Years of Solitude',
among others.
4/20/14
I was a middle child,
the middle of three unwanted children
Our mother was English, an actress,
who had the misfortune of
loving our father, who abandoned us
We were all partitioned out to
whoever would take a toddler or an infant
when our mother died. Yes, our mother
had chosen very poorly.
I was a ward of a couple who traded slaves,
a couple who never adopted me,
never called me son.
I was an interloper, spoiled one minute,
mistreated and harshly disciplined the next.
According to my master's whims. His wife
was silent, she did not care, she was not my mother.
My first book of poems was like me.
Nameless. I actually made sure the
by-line did not have a name. I treated it
with contempt, a contempt I understood.
I did not belong to anyone. The book
was like me, un-named, un-claimed, lost.
It did not do well. I continued living on
my five dollars a week salary.
At 27, I laid with my 13-year-old cousin.
We call this child abuse now; in 1836, it
was called marriage. She belonged to me.
I was no longer alone.
My wife passed before she was 30; at least
she lived long enough to see one of my poems
published and positively received. It was
different, interesting, to readers, macabre.
I died at 40; causes unknown.
Possibly because no one cared enough
to find out what finished me. Some said heart
disease, others suicide, some cholera, others
drugs.
What matter? I was dead wasn't I?
Dead, as the raven in my story, dead
and gone, forevermore. It seems
peculiar now that I matter more today
than I did when I was alive.
My pen is mourning the agonies and the sufferings
Of my people, who are drowning in the sea of misery.
My keyboard' strokes are shadowing the slow rhythms
Of the wandering beggar, who's lost in the sanctuary.
My voice denounces the filthy cholera and the injustices,
Which are punishing the weakest souls of the valley.
A tiny oligarchy is meagerly being rewarded;
What a shame for a man-made world corrupted with vices!
My daring pen defaces the inequality and the imbalance,
Which fool the image of a so called free world.
My laser beams burn the iris of the blind peasants,
Who can now see clearly the mini-sketch of my people.
I am the brother-in law of the cowardly executed poet
And the great-grandson of the poorest assassinated emperor.
I abhor the vanity and the lowliness of mankind in horror,
Oh! Lord, I'm going to read aloud twelve psalms, from my seat.
My pen is mourning my beloved people,
Who are innocently digesting the giant toxic apple.
My voice is seduced by the wind of liberty,
Which echoes the piercing screams of the starving babies of Haiti.
P.S. Translation of 'Ma Plume Pleure Du Sang' by Hebert Logerie.
Copyright© November 2010, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of four books of poems.
Gold on ancient atoll?
Gone be prospector's hope!
Gore, doth coat the brazen bull?
Golem, get the rope?
Best for those politest men?
Better think again.
Bone a-broken, dive in den?
Flicker on the fen...
Torn like life tormented?
Break upon, O wave.
How the gods lamented!
O shroud hung on the grave!
Yellow as a predator's eye?
Dun the desert doubt.
Riddles, rivers, thy reply?
Time will sort it out.
Plight of all the human race?
Leaving like a trace.
O defeated, thy disgrace!
Cholera, catch case!
Syllable, O sylvan!
Each to preserve a life!
Dreams once started, thus began!
Razor's edge or knife!
Wail, O watching widows?
We'd really rather not.
Soul a-sold, what doth ye owes?
Death, be but a thought!
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.