Long Commonplace Poems
Long Commonplace Poems. Below are the most popular long Commonplace by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Commonplace poems by poem length and keyword.
Two hundred and forty seconds or more,
Laying, fetal position in Mother’s fluids,
Fighting for air, for life
Foreshadowing his existence.
Birthed, alone
Taken from one home of solitude to
One of solitary confinement.
To us, a tragedy, to him; life.
December 3, 1930,
Before the stock market crashed
Before this child would be set aside with lost children,
Before he had a chance, he was raised by strangers.
“Institutionalized” from 3 years of age to 18 years old.
Everything being done for him, is measured doses,
Single serving packages were his normalcy,
And nurses squawking, “He’ll never be able to function on his own”
And finally, 18 years old, she came to get him out.
Let him be in the world amongst family, amongst people,
Amongst the living, instead of amongst the helpless.
This “cannot” man, got a job
Cooking for our countrymen
Caring for all encountered on a daily basis,
Permanent smile, glued to his face.
He had done everything he wanted
Even as people looked at him with sympathetic eyes,
He was oblivious to their gaze, yet he knew.
He didn’t mind, didn’t hit the nerves with this man.
He invested money
And made more than most “able” men are capable,
To him, however, it was of no consequence.
He was just as happy to smoke a cigarette and drink coffee.
O, the adversity, the near-death birth,
The late-night mugging, broken mandible,
Never disfigured his smile, or his outlook on life,
Could never dampen his demeanor.
Who ever came, or has come into contact with him, at first
Ultimately felt bad about themselves, as I did,
Never has there been a man so selfless, so unaware,
So angelic.
Like he had already transcended humanity within those
Two hundred forty seconds, and decided to stay for the Ride.
Everything was so new, so awed by life in general.
Family and friends of Larry,
Should know something they might have overlooked.
This man, rather, this man-child, although sheltered,
Institutionalized, disregarded, downtrodden by others,
Accomplished more than most men that have been referenced and revered.
never said a dull or commonplace thing, and for that he will be remembered.
Two hundred forty seconds or Less,
Laying, embracing the life he had, opened his
Eyes, and it’s December 3rd, 1930,
and Mother and son stare at each other for the first time.
In the whisper of twilight, where shadows meet the edge of dreams,
Lies the truth of our times, a somber murmur carried by the wind of mediocrity.
Once, the soul soared with the ambition of stars; now, the commonplace mind,
Knowing itself to be mediocre, proclaims its right to mediocrity,
And imposes its dullness wherever it can.
Life, in its raw essence, is insipid—a mere act of "being there. "
Thus, for man, existence transforms into a poetic endeavor,
A task akin to that of the playwright or novelist:
To invent a narrative thread for his existence, to give it character,
Making it both suggestive and beguiling.
In the stillness of midnight, under the quilt of countless stars,
The mediocre soul may contemplate its right to mediocrity,
Spreading its mundane essence across the tapestry of time.
And yet, in this silent rebellion, a melancholic magic awakens, weaving truths into metaphors.
Man, that being wrapped in thoughts and desires,
Finds the fabric of mere existence distasteful,
Turning to diversions as an essential art, a salvation from the void of simply being.
Thus, in the corridors of the mind, he creates unseen worlds,
Where every heartbeat whispers a symphony of purpose.
The commonplace mind may seek to impose its dull hue upon the vibrant canvas of life,
But the heart, in its secret chambers, remains an alchemist,
Turning leaden moments into golden narratives,
Inventing threads that shine with unseen light, characters that dance in the shadow of the mundane.
Serious examination reveals the existential melancholy,
The distaste for the unembellished universe, the thirst for something more.
Here, in the crucible of thoughts, we distill our dreams,
Creating a life both poetic and profound, beyond the mere act of "being there. "
For man, existence must transcend the assertion of the mediocre,
Must rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the ordinary,
Towards a realm where every breath is a verse, each moment a chapter,
In the endless novella of a soul's journey.
Thus, in the flux of consciousness, thoughts flow like rivers,
Carving new paths through the wilderness of the mind,
Where even the mediocre soul, in its quiet rebellion,
Might find a spark of the extraordinary,
Transforming existence from insipid to inspired,
From mere being to profound becoming.
Virtual Reality
At Altimira Cave
Centuries pass, in what would be Spain,
While the snows fell and fell
They painted their walls,
Making their mark,
Calling down the magic of the image
To control the beasts whose flesh, bone and hide
Made possible their desperate lives
Imitating the terrible, beautiful world
Their minds came awake in,
Put them on their walls, said their prayers and hoped
For more days to dawn for they and theirs.
Then, suddenly
- Just a little while back-
The weather warmed
The caves were left
Crops were grown
Cities brought to birth
Religion organized
Then more organized
Until Faith itself became a
Science
The book of Nature translated and read
Her every secret exposed, exploited
Until wonders were commonplace,
And the commonplace was elevated to wonder
By new magicians
By popular request
Relieving the dull ache that remained
After we pulled the sense of Majesty out of the caves, out of our distrusted, Protesting hearts.
So here we find ourselves
Sitting in our personal caves
Awaiting magic from the flashing cathode boxes
Hoping someone will keep making dreams for us
To control what's outside
By imitating it inside
With our fondest desires.
Pray to the Electric Wall, Ye Faithful!
Pray for beauty, pain, rage, seduction, sedition;
For gods, for whores, for profit, penance
- All the things the real world holds,
But only our lunatics embrace.
Everyone knows it's better to reflect the world to ourselves,
Dress it up as we like;
With the ever-present option to switch channels
Rather than face it, cold and naked;
And call things by their own true names.
Some of us are tiring of the dream wall, all the same.
Some of us like things cold and naked.
Some of us will always venture out of the cave.
Some of us know the true names.
We teach our children the difference between Real
And pictures of the Real.
We teach our children to paint their beasts on the walls
- Sometimes -
And how to call them by their real names
And how to kill them with their real spears.
Come join the children outside the cave;
The little ones who know.
You'll find the snow's not really so deep,
And under it
There's real grass, real stone, real fire, real hope.
It is not a fact
That the super moon arrived
after many years
And will again be seen
After so many years
It came just the other day
With a lot of tales to say
Whenever you come
As the colours come
In apple handsome
Whenever you come
As a yellow and red music
In the flute and drum
Whenever you come
Along with bees in hum
The super moon comes
And not the everyday moon
That we are used to, like our
Tobacco and eructation sour
Our brown pride and black power
No, not so commonplace an episode
Without nothing to decode
It is a super moon
When you come
As a glide trembling in a tune
Taking down the moon
It is not a fact too
That you will not come again
Very soon
May be next June
May be sooner or later
We cannot predict
When the bones and bloods will be lit
No computer to foresee
Nor there will be one
When the thunder will knock in a frisson
A lightning will flash across the horizon
Almost all on a sudden
One day we see a lovely cherry
on a deep red tree
Inside our cognitivity
There, there, upon the dunes
The moon changes
To a super moon
No more camels in a procession
In the shadows of isolation
Existential fragmentation
In the peace of night
The delighted super moon
May enter through your window
And sit beside your pillow
You may act Pablo Picasso
Neruda Pablo
Or blame it on Rio
Morning night or noon
You don't know when
But it does come
The super moon
Time does flirt
Overt or covert
According to your personality
Extro or introvert
Time does bloom
To flood our momentary rooms
With the exhilarating sensations
From the super moon
Whether a Trump
Or a dweller in a slum
All including she he and you
Can understand my view
'Cause the milieu
And the needle and thread
With which I sew this design
The visits of super moonshine
You have perceived it
You did meet it
In the recurrent current
Flooding your barren lands
Inside your chest
Your resplendent moments of crest
The super moon in our inward sky
My smiling shadow in your eyes
Our times intensify
As we both live and die
It is a succession of life and death
The desire dances underneath
------------------------------------------------
24/11/2016
"The Epiphany Rose"
All well and good,
the story unfolds;
the isolating madness
drew out the poets
in all the shunned
playing up and out
their origami
word games
something like
an epiphany rose
in them, the mad,
recalcitrant ones,
like nuns leaving
the genuflecting aisles
turning backs
before all their
starched alters
dripping idols
no longer really there,
they were somewhere
outside of It all;
the closed rose
turned around
to walk as one,
out the doors
into the blazing sun
finding some
strange reunion,
peeling off their
dark layers,
their novitiate
romance, their
too hot habits
disgarded
under indigo sky
of long dark nights,
reeling in the dream
like cotton thread
from a spinning wheel,
strange Ezekial creatures,
their nakedness
witnessed like
whirling dervish
calling in revolutions,
the expected extracted
arriving in the rolling clouds
another kingdom comes
swiftly opening
minds like roman candles
exploding like spiders
across the stars…
the timeless road
is now wide open
and well lit
(Ladylabyrinth / 2023)
"…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…”
(Keroac)
"Wherever the spirit would go, they would go, and the wheels would rise along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels. When the creatures moved, they also moved; when the creatures stood still, they also stood still; and when the creatures rose from the ground, the wheels rose along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels."
(Ezekial)
“Oh, honey my life and it's got me old fool gold
In the gold dust rush I can only genuflect
Oh, honey my life and it's got me old fool gold
In the gold dust rush
In the gold dust rush
Honey it is horrible
(In the gold dust rush)
There's locusts in there
She's got the old fool gold …"
(Cocteau Twins)
"The Meditative Rose"/Dali
When Poetry Soup becomes infested with partisan rubbish,
It will be difficult for liberal, creative poets, like me to flourish
Who seek a safe place away from the maddening ignorance
Of those people who continually despise political difference
For those who are angry and want to say the nastiest things
Do you have any idea what hurt your insatiable blather brings?
For some who don’t consider me a red-blooded American patriot,
I fought for the U.S. of A. in uniform when you were still just a tot!
I would rather die on the altar of honor than continually be castigated
By followers of a “wannabe” dictator who every day prevaricated
And sought to drag our country down into the muck and mire
Continues, to this day, stoking his sycophants’ hatred with fire.
Selecting a political putdown of President Joseph Biden for Poem of the Day
Was surely inappropriate if Poetry Soup administrators wish to say
The site maintains neutrality when it comes to political discourse
It encouraged poets, in their remarks, to choose up sides, of course
Anger and vitriol hurled toward us who are of more left-leaning mind
Will likely now become commonplace for those who are not so inclined.
Frankly, I despise clicking on a poem I think will be worth reading
Only to find, instead, an anti-American tirade of invective leading
To put-downs against our president, the vice-president, and first lady
Half-truths and conspiracy theories that, for the most part, are shady
If you are unhappy with the free and fair election that turned out your man
Then, every chance you get, go vote and change the system, if you can!
Our country is not, I think we’d all agree, a perfect democracy
We have lots of problems and crises – that's plain to see, but,
We now have a leader who cares about doing what is right
A man, who in short-order, is ready, committed, and willing to fight.
I have travelled the world over, north and south, east and west
Freedom to flourish in America is head and shoulders above the rest!
Written: April 4, 2021 (edited)
Awarded Poem of the Day on Poetry Soup
April 5, 2021
#38 on Best New Poems on Poetry Soup
April 6, 2021
It seems to be something of a trend
to dump on happy endings these days,
and anything that shows moral sense
brings calls to be cancelled right away.
The only thing the elites accept
is the dysfunctional and depraved,
anything else must be childish,
from 'simple minds' mired in cliché.
I’ve been alive long enough to see
that yes, the world can be truly cruel,
But I have seen that just as often
it can be a hundred shades of cool.
And to demonize the wholesomeness
that some entertainment will provide,
to scoff at all the family values
that brought the millions fulfilled lives,
how does that make a person feel smart?
How do they not realize, in their brains,
that life has as much light as darkness,
that there’s more than just wallowing pain?
I admit there is real value in
examining things that make us hurt,
but isn’t there as much value in
looking into what makes this world work?
I think it comes down to two reasons,
and the first I say half-way in jest,
to me it seems our society
is a victim of its own success.
To put it simply, some folks are bored,
with the type of life that we all have.
Where once we struggled just to survive,
now we feel fat and lazy and bad.
The morals we used to celebrate
worked so well they became commonplace,
we forgot how they built our nation,
assumed they were the natural state.
And given the questing human mind,
we went out looking for something new,
but when things are good you only find change
flirting with less moral points-of-view.
You start to fetishize the bad-boy,
romanticize all the criminals,
of course, you're safe while your doing this,
so you don’t comprehend it in full.
And then it creeps into the culture,
hidden by buzz-words like ‘tolerance,’
but like any drug, the hit wears off,
and you need more and more decadence.
Until you’ve been immersed so damn long
that you think it is all that is real,
that there’s nothing but the decadent,
and you are so desperate just to feel.
Some people are destroyed by all this,
others burn out and make a retreat,
realize the wholesome is not that bad,
and away from the cities they beat...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Drawn together, seemingly predestined,
freewill nothing but illusion,
a love so infinitely rare -
a random wave of emotion
to be surfed to its destination?
No, a power sublime,
surpassing that force binding the universe.
Were there ever more, or more intense
emotions rushing at once,
to weigh and buoy a heart?
Your touch a great clarifier of thought and feeling.
Restraint overcome,
replaced by the capacity to love
that stems from being loved.
Life flashing before me, its
realization of misshapen thought,
misspent years changing everything;
now understanding the true worth,
this offer of life unencumbered.
Every day a gift, every moment to savor,
a license to enjoy life on unfamiliar turf,
nothing more than fearless-
when that felt at night,
when we are all most alone,
a fear so great to be called mortal terror,
made powerless by your touch.
Studying your face feature by feature,
could I ever forget your eyes,
the luster of your hair,
the shape of your mouth,
the sheen on your lips.
This sum of love and beauty
encompassing a dream;
our lives before us.
Thoughts held in mind
reproduced in their kind,
love growing, ever expanding;
your inherent goodness found me in me,
showing what I might be
taught the value of family,
and roots.
In simplest terms my life began that day
though I'd lived decades without.
To see those eyelids flutter,
to watch and pray through the night
that I could fulfill my role as husband,
to be your lifelong companion,
friend, advocate, lover, protector-
that you would understand cherish-
and be a wife satisfied.
How long since we last kissed,
but a moment ago, or an eternity?
Oh, the sense of ineffable rest,
joy and completeness when in your arms;
a lover won, a wife to behold.
The commonplace,
the everyday, behind its familiar facade
being most likely to hold surprise,
the memories to treasure;
rejecting an existence
that substitutes flash for beauty,
sensation for love-
as long as there is life there is hope
that beauty, that love lost
can be rediscovered,
what was reviled
can be redeemed.
(continued from PART ONE)
Why I’ve seen him countless times, regurgitate old dog faeces onto fresh bread
And listened to his quiet voice exhorting me to do the same.
This fly was a born teacher.
There can be no greater accolade for a teacher than to be followed by his students.
He used basic good common sense, but spiced-up with a dash of excitement.
The well-known excrement-with-fried-egg, the easy-to-recognize urine-flavoured
Chips in the gutter, and the now commonplace saliva-over-spoon trick,
Are today almost standard delicacies for us all. Yet it was Hector who pioneered them.
He ignored the scorn and catcalls from younger flies, as he disdained a baby’s diaper
In some trash can, and went winging his way up to the second floor of the hospital
To select the juiciest old blood he could find.
No - Hector was independent, he was truly his own fly.
He stuck with pioneering ideas like the then-untested skid techniques
For escaping fly-swatters wielded in kitchens. It was Hector’s brave soul
Which brought standardized fly-patrols into being to catch a greater proportion of
Unsuspecting open-mouthed sleepers at night.
Uncle Hector went where no fly had gone before, and he did it with style.
He often said,“If you can make it on this heap of cat-dung, you can make it anywhere”
And there’s the lesson for us all today, ladies and gentlemen.
Let us not grieve for the loss of such a fine fly, but rather
Celebrate his life of discovery and progress. Let us go forth from this cat-crap
To a brighter future illuminated by the searching curiosity of Uncle Hector’s mind.
Younger generation, you must go forth boldly and find your own rotten cucumbers,
Your own half-eaten porkchops, your own dandruff-laden combs,
And be not afraid to mix them with relish as you choose from the delicacies
Of the knacker’s yard or the remains of a crow hit by a ten-ton truck on the road.
We stand - or hover - now in silence for one minute, as a token of respect -
And as we enjoy the gentle aroma of this cat-crap heap,
Allow the memory of Hector to inspire us.
God bless you all.
Translation of Cuppiramania Bharathiyar’s poem: Kannamma, My Love! (Kannamma En Kaathali) by T. Wignesan
Yet another poem by the most famous modern Tamil poet, written a century ago – despite the commonplace imagery – follows in the original very complex classical Tamil prosodic rules in the execution of initial and end-rhymes, alliteration in each line and in the immediate and successive lines as a whole, the inner rhymes of assonance and consonance notwithstanding. The non-Tamil can best savour these poetic and/or musical qualities by listening to the version of the poem set to music, and here sung by Mahathi:
YouTubeFR: Aasai Mugam Jukebox – Songs of Bharathiyar – Tamil Patriotic Songs (It’s the 4th song down on the left column)
Does not the endearing warmth of our mutual gaze – Kannamma
Reflect the light of the sun and moon alike?
Does not the precious circular eye – Kannamma
Dispel the darkness of the skies?
Dressed in deep blue-black silk – the sari
Inlaid with choice diamonds
While in the core of pitch darkness – glitter
The scintillating stars – Dear-Girlie!
Does not the blossoming grove fade – lit by your
Illuminating smile?
Even as blue-tinted sea waves –your
Breast heaves in unison – Girlie-Dear!
Just as the enticing cuckoo call – your
Sweet dulcet tones invade, My Dear!
O! You unspoilt young maiden! – Kannamma!
The bridal feast* has yoked my heart, alas!
You speak of comparing birth-charts* - Kannamma
What avails such astrological omens?
For those who can hardly repress yearning – Kannamma
Might the stars forebode greater bliss?
If our elders will bestow approval – nuptial
Arrangements we will later formalize
Will I be waiting for you, My Dear – to seal
Our vows – plant I this kiss on your cheek!
Notes
• According to Hindu custom, the brides’s family has to offer a sumptuous dinner to the formally-invited bride-groom.
• Hindu marriages are often contracted after verification of
birth-charts, drawn up by astrologers, to ascertain the compatibility of the bride to the bride-groom.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015