Long Choppy Poems
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MY FATHER'S GENTLE HANDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember my father’s hands as a plumber’s hands—fiercely strong, calloused, rough, knuckle-battered, and dirty after a long-day’s work. Those hands shoveled; unclogged drains and toilets; repaired leaks; and installed pipes, commodes, and bathtubs. Those hands provided.
I remember my father’s hands as a fisherman’s hands—perfectly patient, tenacious, self-confident, and unwavering as he held his fishing line and lure stabile, waiting for a fish to take the bait. “Keep your hands steady. Stay focused,” he prompted me when I asked him to teach me how to fish from his flat-bottom boat. Those hands fished longer than they ‘plumbed,’ rarely missing an opportunity to commune with nature, seldom losing a fish. Those hands fed.
I remember my father’s hands as a treasure hunter’s hands—firm, certain, and capable, listening intently to his metal detector’s tones learning to discriminate the sound a good coin makes compared to the choppy, broken sound a junk target makes. Those hands searched, discriminated, and found soulful answers to life’s complex questions and dilemmas.
I remember my father’s hands as gentle healing hands—kind and comforting as he wiped away the tears that sometimes streamed down my face. Without saying a word, those hands loved, consoled, and encouraged—always righting my world.
I remember my father’s hands—full of strength and hope as he took my trembling hands in his. Those hands gave me courage—the courage to reach up in search of everything impossible, leaving me with the unbridled sense that to do anything less was the greatest impossibility of all. Even now whenever I need courage, I can feel his hand around mine helping me to feel invincible once again.
In my mind’s eye, I often see my father’s hands—every line and every wrinkle. They told a story about the kind of man he was. I’ll remember my father’s hands for the remainder of my life. I’m grateful for him, for his enduring spirit and presence, which continues to grace my life despite his passing some years ago.
Dad's hands tell a tale
they did countless loving things
they touched and guided
they shaped and molded
they encouraged me to reach
they held the stars in place
they held rising sun
they sought deep understanding
they chased lonely moon
for Prithwin
first
left downstroke
start from the top
plane out
let the long anchor tip roof-line curve sharply upwards
at the stern down-end
pile it in stuffed in the centre
leave the bottom open
that’s where the studded boot rightly fits
Over billowing transmuted waters
the haze lifts now and then
winds amber green waft and skim
with the late light caught shimmering
no albatross circles the mast
guilt is pure guilt without wanton arrows
there are no signs of land
but the proffered hand
the wanderer knows no words of his own
Reach - disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Can he yet placate asylum
echo the cluck of a poaching North American coot
nestling amidst Eurasian breeding reeds
taut bunching yarrow rushes
an embattled haven
against majestic swan ships
sleek velvety rich drake
peacockish barnacle goose
come in early from the cold
Let the dards of Orion spell syllables of ease
through the congested smudge of yore
contorted fantizi ideograms
cursory calligraphic long dripping brush strokes
pale to pinyin
Simplified
the exile gasps for instant phonemic breath
under choppy waves of stuttering tongues
racy blades
extirpate langue crucify parole
mix meaning into heady synaesthesiac brew
loss of face is a loss of noodles
develop equals hair
Could René Char’s Zeit Geist
have diagnosed the myna’s Kâla-Purusha
Reach – disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Resources
1. This poem has to do with a Bengali translator’s first encounter with René Char at his residence The French poet questioned his translator on the meaning of “le dard d’Orion” in
his poem: “Jeu muet”. The translator interpreted the phrase as having to do with
astronomy and thus rendered it as “kâla Purusha” (Zeit Geist or literally as in
Hindu mythology: the Primal Being at the beginning of time). René Char then
picked a certain variety of the cactus flower in his garden and said that the
French “phrase” applied to that particular flower.
2. The imagery in the poem also relates to the simplification of classical Chinese
characters (fantizi) by the Peoples Republic of China in the early fifties and the
alphabetisation of Chinese characters, known as “pinyin” as opposed to the Wade and Yale systems. The simplified characters produced certain semantic anomalies.
©T. Wignesan, Paris – May 3, 2009
In your restless slumbers you feel me,
I know you feel me.
Always by your side like an iron rusted sword
Dull to the touch and stranded to the length of your back.
Your sudden sighs will be the ocean churning and
The waves that collapse against the shore.
Every ache you undergo will emit a moan
So loud and locked away that even the sky will mourn
And it’s rains will fall for you alone.
Each dripping drop will attempt to match your insides
From the moment the first moon beams hit your windowsill
Till the sun ascends in an incandescent dawn
That pinkens the walls of your chambers.
You look beyond a naked field to
A moon which eases with every passing moment.
Beckoning you to dreams and thoughts that lay like scars and stains.
Come, they whisper.
Come listen to the symphony of our affairs.
Come watch these green waters turn to gold.
Travel the world and reach the end
Only to find that you still want.
But here, with no one around in this volatile room,
With no eyes peering but the licks of lighted candles,
You’ll plead no to a nameless fear
As you swallow the back of your mind.
Let an open mind in,
Allow it to listen.
And as you glance over to vacancy from
Your worn and heated side,
The skies will shudder with every hope and every lie
That even Socrates cannot deny these tries.
But in the half light of my own room
I wish to be your broken record
Or the lead singers private microphone.
Kiss my finger tips and drink in the residue of fountain pens.
I will plaster each phrase to my bedroom wall
Where I live to see that the writing never flows.
That each excerpt is choppy and final.
That every quote is bold and blush.
The frayed and shredded nursery wallpaper,
Shimmering pink with sudden audacity,
Will reflect moodily and ambiguously of my shattered thoughts.
With kudos to a grandmother Mary,
I slowly lift a frozen face from underneath a pillow.
After a minute of self doubt and realization
That settles like pin pricks on the palms of my hands,
I slide the idle face back into it’s sheath
Then contemplate the curiosity of my own slumber.
While ignoring every hope of sleep,
I’ll thread two nimble fingers through an open flame,
Stare provokingly into the shadows on the ceiling,
Get bored,
Get lonely,
And think of you.
With every gust of wind, secret taboo,
secreting a web a cocooned prison
of liquid knowing, flowing,
emulsifying impossibly old and new.
In the beyond of the known, stair-stepped,
desert bone flashed into
your consciousness a confident cajoling.
To stew, on the broth of you.
A teasing shot across your bough
of lost resistance and preservation
your eyes rolling white to the out of blue.
Sailing magnetic across it's salivate maw
and unflinching gaze
You are its pupil satellite Positron of drug,
positioned, strung shift of phase shift
of new vistas of truth and beauty unsealed,
inlayed in the naked language of the Angels, stage.
You are, quickened.
Quickened-Quicksilver, tuning, dimensionality,
Principality.
Hidden depths of self,
trigger emotion and thoughts
of infinity divided by three.
A black hole of obscene curiosity
swallows your mind.
Consciousness crests
in trans-mission inflated verbose
relay of Celeste divine? Freet?
You are a place of shipwrecks and mires,
Vagabound desires.
Who dares to sail beyond the horizon of the known retreat.
You come to an isle
of Precious golds and silvers
in frequency bands of holo-hold.
Land of spellcraft, music, heresy, thrones.
Centrigual placement of palaced
internment, camp of strange instruments,
beautiful adorned accoutrements, and contrived designs.
Rune of keys you can feel, the need.
To play them, a feeling, freed.
You shape the music into an arch entity
that offers you it's drink.
You become a dizzy swirl, unable to think to speak...
Of
Silk robes of every delicate fabrication of sin.
Jewels undone, in mythos biolocationed- transmogrifliquesatisfactions.
Yet the symbology remains constant
in it's sustain of visual topology.
Guiding you through the choppy waters
on ethereal landing
in land of the cloud of uncertainty, in hymnal,
refrain, refrain from it's hypnotic beat.
Hold on tight, Jane, Jason of the
foams and eddys and strangered things.
The exhilerating peril, in para parable.
Epic Tome, seasoning tomb of forner deed, denial plausibility causible.
Be ye not
thirsted for the salts of her drink.
For these are the Seven Seas.
If my lifevest were a donut that floated, I could float and eat happily for a week.
I was alone amid the choppy sea, baking under a watchful hot sun -
Near me were scary fins; they stayed close but had not yet attempted to bother
me.
I drifted on the tubular float, my feet barely in waves.
I saw in the distance a floating wood dock…
Or maybe it was the smallest little island I had ever seen, only with no trees or
shrubbery. I could not tell.
By and by I drifted closer…
And spotted a most unblemished figure standing alone with long flowing hair,
long legs and bronzed buttocks to be sure, tanned coconuts by her feet. That
much I discerned.
I floated and bobbed on my donut tube and hoped that I might float to her and her
happy dock –
Two fins specifically came closer.
Silver gray looming primeval fins slicing thru the water more pronounced and
curious than the others, seemingly purpose-driven –
The woman with coconuts on a level dock waved to me.
She then signaled to me in warning that there were sharks in the water [as if I did
not know]. I was only in seven feet of water -
Red coral reefs were around me below the sharks…but it was to me perhaps the
most beautiful inviting water in all the world.
Even with these awesome man-eaters . . .
I was closer to the dock now. Fifty meters. I was sure of it! I wanted to rip off the
vest and make a quick marathon swim to the girl – I did not think I could make it.
My lips were chapped and my skin (hot from sun, wind and tropical haze) hurt
badly and peeled, floating into the island air and into green waves. My skin.
I thought my skin was stinging, but . . .
Something pulled at my foot. Burning pain crippled me. A fluorescent jellyfish had
stung me.
When I looked up, there was no woman on the dock. But still the goddamned
fins -
I splashed in quick turning circles to try and find her, this woman on the dock,
goddess, figment of my imagination…whatever.
I saw more fins, the same fins, but no girl.
Then, lo, there was splashing. The girl was swimming to me . . .
When at last splashing ceased, and I was calm, I noted a warm easy wave come
over me
I wave vaguely toward a boat in the distance, but
can't think of what I would say if they invited me on board.
"That seems excessive kindness," I say, but a voice laughs in my head,
"Yeah, but they'll never do that!" In its vacuum stare, a seagull
encourages me to think past my confusing options. I laugh pretty hard and
move on to the empty boardwalk overlooking the choppy waters, picking someone's trash as part of my civic duty, thinking "life's better in this barren habitat" and then am glued to a kite spinning wildly in the sky attached to a windsurfer riding the waves, suddenly disappearing and then resurfacing, has trouble unhooking the kite, saying to myself, "that's a good kite he should keep it" and then watch it fly like a free bird before crashing into the ocean. I walk past the sign that reads, "Sally was here today" wondering if she was blonde or brunette. I whisper in my head, "this place must do well in the Summer." Today it's silent, like our interior souls crushed by the disease. "We'll come ahead on this one. What made you look for water snake in this environment?" My father would have encouraged me that I was right, he was always delusional, always carried a small umbrella even in hot Summer days as a precaution. "You need to learn to manage your affairs better," his voice rings in my head. He loved his car and wanted to drive it to his own funeral. I see an old grill gummed up with ashes, wondering how many beachgoers it had pleased and all the stories it had to tell. "There was once a married couple who ate their burgers raw." The boardwalk turns into rocky sand, waiting to torture my bare feet, a seagull is looking purposefully at my predicament, perhaps chuckling,
"these helpless creatures."
Lend me the swiftness of your wings, so I can ride above
the foamy waves and sit on a humpback whale that lies still in
recumbent grace, sniffing you out. I am your maid and it does not take long
to try its patience. I hope you spare me your wet witching. You would have saved a squad of dolphins from their daily doldrum if you were game and
moved in their playful company.
Inaccessible solitude, I venture to conclude at random.
I stood on a gigantic branch that hangs over the great big ocean
that spans across the depth and width of this earth and stretched forth my
hands. I reached towards the heavens and cried out to the almighty
God to save his people from the terrible wrath to come.
It was not a cry for vengeance; it wasn’t a cry of pain,
It wasn’t a cry of bitterness or anger, but a cry for pardon
and mercy that sank deep within my guts,
resonate throughout mountains, valleys
and plains then filtering into thin air.
Series of cries rushes through the leaves;
They evaporate in the atmosphere and filled the clouds with rain.
I could hear voices thundering in the ocean,
Beating and riding upon choppy waves.
Voices of the young and old rushes through the air
Voices of the motherless and fatherless, triggered desperation
Voices of starving widows weep for compassion
Voices of strangers and wounded warrior crying out for help.
I could not see them, I could not touch them but I could hear them.
I walked towards the last pinnacle on the branch,
And remained silent while staring at the clear blue sky,
when suddenly I felt empowered by a strong presence that stood beside me.
It held me by my hand and took me across the great big ocean and seated me upon a rock .
It pointed in four directions, and cried out in a loud voice.
Then places its hands upon my head and said
“child I have seen what they have done, and I have heard your cry,"
you are under my covering and no harm will ever come to you.
From now on you shall be my head, and you must go wherever I send you.
You will take my message of mercy and forgiveness to the four corners of the globe.
Those who persist in their evil ways will perish in their own wrath,
but those who will repent of their evil ways will be granted pardon and mercy.
It took me back to the tree and cut all the branches,
the only branch that remained was the one we stood on and hangs over the ocean.
It says pardon and mercy cry out in the deep,go and see to it my dear.
It places a book and gold pen in my hand then disappeared.
©2014 Christine Phillips
June 11, 2016
I sit on the balcony of a research station in Georgian Bay, disconnected from the world.
The vast waters open up before me, with the rocky beach expanding off to each side,
A blue sky ahead dappled with little white tufts, the sun slowly retreating to the west.
I am engulfed by cedars, spruce, birch, aspen...
Surrounded by waxwings, vireos, sparrows, robins, warblers, chickadees…
And though I thought of nothing when I stepped out onto this balcony,
I find myself seeing us – you, me, and humanity – in everything around me.
There is the ever-present thunder of waves pounding the shores.
Deceivingly pristine, looking warm and peaceful on the surface,
But with tumbled rocks – evidence of a tumultuous past – visible just below.
The predictability of the powerful waves is comforting.
It is familiar yet humbling, and exposes our imperfect human traits.
Like a mistake we repeat over and over – ‘history is destined to repeat itself’.
Though initially it seems different each time, the end result is the same: we get drenched.
The songs of the many birds compete for the attention of mates,
Like the voices of seven billion people all trying to be heard in some form or other;
As with the birds, some are heard louder than the rest,
And there are some who will remain forever unheard from where we are standing.
In the trees I watch the leaves flutter – particularly characteristic of the trembling aspen.
I remember how we feel together, running our fingers along our skin so as to barely touch,
As if we would shatter like glass into a thousand pieces.
The wind taunts sea birds seeking to land, and appears to enjoy rustling the trees.
Hundreds of Sandhill cranes take a rest on the alvar from their migration,
They seem to tiptoe unknowingly across this precious landscape of moss microcosms,
Like many who pass their lives not seeing or appreciating the subtleties of human interaction.
The sun paints the horizon – a woman in red and gold waiting to be forever chased.
The Bay is choppy, yet I can see us staring back at me in everything.
The picture of imperfection. A perfect reflection.
I feel like a ship lost in the open sea in the middle of a storm crashing side to side as I try and navigate the choppy waters of life.
All alone being pulled and tossed side to side between everyone else’s emotions other than mine.
I am trying to find calm land to lay my head in peace and relax and enjoy myself then another wave crashes against my boat throwing me off my balance.
I fight hard to control my ship.
During my voyage I have lightened my load and lost many things on this journey.
I am fighting, I am always fighting. Within the waves and me crashing over my bow.
Some days the waters are calm and the sun shines down in comfort and these are the days that I love. To sit in peace and feel the warmth on my flesh.
I say I do not need anything but this little ship that I am on, and I truly feel that I mean it.
My ship with very few rations has sustained me for over five years.
I seem to have some sort of fortune that I am provided for when the time is needed. I try not to worry about my future.
I have a crew that I feel I am responsible for, and I do my best to care for them all. I feel they want me as their leader but then again it is only on their terms - And the storm rises again, and my ship is off balance.
But this is a crew that I cannot simply let go of. This is a great commitment that I have taken upon.
Sometimes I want to go down to the hull of my ship in retreat and be alone with myself and drink wine and be within myself. But if I do the crew begins to revolt and not knowingly cause my ship to go further off balance in a fight against the storm.
I need my crew. I also see their needs, but do they see mine? I feel myself withdrawing but my ship is important to me. I will never jump ship. I just wish that my crew would understand and learn to work better for themselves and together and let me guide the ship through the storms.
I have full belief that the storms will eventually pass but, in the meantime, I must continue to steer forward and keep my ship afloat. I know my land of promise is out there in the distance of the great seas.
I will go down fighting with my ship.
(alternately christened great insight
to those who Braille)
Ah.... so glad thee did ask
summoning poetic title
tis most daunting task
if lucky forthcoming praise
will yours truly to bask
and bathe with short lived,
while I quaff vintage
amber liquids out the
golden silver made flask.
Utter exhaustion taxes me
fifty shades of gray matter
while trying to grasp just
one measly idea amidst
all that scatter
to and fro hither and yon
analogous to mire and muck
that doth splatter
courtesy nasty driver
mad as a hatter.
Yours truly scrunches his brow
in an effort to provide,
enable and allow
gamut of meaty notions,
when finally satisfied utter holy cow,
mama mia, eureka, aha... ejaculate
(hoop fully not premature),
cuz arduous effort analogous
to navigating dhow
sailing frothy, choppy, angry... seas
until sudden (b)rain storm doth endow
sudden burst of inspiration
compelling necessary thrust to plow
ahead and expound therein how
so ever dictates of spontaneity now
let me smoothly coast along
offering scant obeisance, thou
divine fabulous intervention,
hence I feebly kowtow
despite covenant, viz devout atheist
nonetheless puzzled what activates
hitting me figurative pow
similar to Batman disabling enemy,
temporarily speechless disbelief
merely summoning wow.
Much time yours truly doth calibrate
what seems bajillion years I agitate
sitting days, weeks, months...
in an effort to nearly ready to abdicate
and disappoint countless followers
thus, this wordsmith doth dedicate
a section of this battlefield... before to late
(think Gettysburg Address)
no matter minuscule chance fate
will find mine path crossing
unknown online respondent(s),
whose feedback doth inflate
inestimable self confidence (ha)
generally held in check modesty sedate
even when praised in person, I emanate
introspective mien downplaying
genetic and/or environmental factors
wherever talent did originate
cobbling words together arose
courtesy this bookworm
doth really associate
predilection to hash out poem.