Long Critic Poems
Long Critic Poems. Below are the most popular long Critic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Critic poems by poem length and keyword.
I am who I am
Were you to ask where I’m from my past my tale my next of kin
the answer lies in who tells my narrative my twist what kind of spin
My autobiography is quickly shown in who I am will be in time
past present future blend in context and contingency overt and sublime
No doubt the product of genes and socialisation is rather pertinent
thus mixing and mingling draws frameworks but is also quite reticent
German ancestry Lower Saxon and East Prussian born after the War
struggling with Genocide Holocaust trans-generational down to my core
Grew up in Hamburg somewhat lonely understood by not many but few
too young in my school year a class clown a rebel a critic because I knew
Teachers could not reject or downgrade me since I got full marks in exams
so I carved out my niche opposed authority of Messieurs and Mesdames
A late child of the Student Revolution an exchange to California ensued
where hot love struck me like balm on my wounds with Gigi from Peru
After graduation I rejected being supported by my father and joined the Army
to gain independence yet the method to gain freedom now seems very barmy
Could not leave the Forces despite pretty vigorous conscientious objection
did my best to help others as a medical doctor in humanistic inception
My duties brought me to Wales by the Irish Sea with five children and marriage
country medic and farm house guiding my kids and then nuptial miscarriage
Depression struck no light at the end of the tunnel just darkness and void
too much drink downcast in my mental wheel chair and almost destroyed
Went to rehab in South Africa for treatment where God-incidence came
where I met my wife best friend lover soulmate who had suffered the same
Now I sit in the sun in South Africa stopped medicine write story and poem
reinvent my life some inner child stuff self-actualisation and certainly growing
New awareness novel perspectives pacifism philosophy and many questions
but the knowledge that kindness love and compassion are more than suggestions
My most intimate companion apart from my gorgeous wife is depression
both showed me my path journey and meaning my own life’s repossession
So few words about where I come from who I am will become and will be
so if you wish to explore more of my roots and my future please read my poetry
SUN-BLOCK
Your sunset-sanctioned skin ignite melody to boredom world
Your gently pearling smile charm the attention of morning sun.
Your charmed souls burn in nuclear passion
To absorb the bombardment of your ink
You are the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
The sunrises 10 feet off the ground
This place carried the eternal light I need for my soul to soar.
Like the clouds every poet brush away my blues with one simple smile
Writing ignited my heartbeat to flicker like a candlewick non-stop.
I hold that piece of puzzle that makes my existence complete
Elegantly you walk, Venus-like
Printing glory-of-gods on excited earth
Holding hostage your admirers' eyes
With your Gabriel-censored attire
You are truly the mystery of existence
By pd
My eyes I keep holding on tight.
Gathering dangerous looks, from every poets eyes.
Striking like a speed of thunder bolt,
I fell weak like an addict to my admires streak of rays'
I'm the piece of puzzle that makes my own existence complete
Oh beautiful empress of poetry soup.
Wake thy muse and shake off the dust of block
Your fans are in inferno hunger of your welded words
Feed us again, your poetic meal that somersault the arrows of critic
For you are the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
A great source to gather the best light here on the soup.
I found my heart beating like a rush~ spontaneous
Imaging every poem that helps me get lost in the moment
I wrote against and among the best to be like the rest
For I'm that unsolved piece of puzzle that makes my existence complete
You are kinder than nature, more hospitable than mother earth
Man and woman scramble for shelter in your cheerful hearts
For your contest, all thoughts erect pines of words
With rush of the sea storm
P.D. (( Linda )) is the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
Losing myself to reality, this is not like me to fall into deep.
Times maybe hard, not even a simple song to poet my mind.
The truth is, the sun has blinded me with love, and I have no SUN-BLOCK
Until my instincts tells me otherwise, I will find my way back to all my fans * true or not
I (IRMA~LINDA) am responsible for the happiness of my mysterious existence.
BY : JOSEPH & LINDA
For Pd's collab with me contest
Elusive pursuit endeavoring to craft a great poem
I (analogous to a rolling stone)
confess, no deliberate intent, yet often wonder
what spurs me to nudge, goad, coax, et cetera
semblance of reasonable poetic rhyme
despite modesty regarding
ably linkedin words for others to ponder
more often than not experiencing nonresponder,
nevertheless share mine writing
with folks cyberspace out yonder
or aliens occupying
beyond the pale of outer limits
amidst the twilight zone,
where dark shadows
looming near the edge of night
hint of spooky forebodings.
Without lofty literary ambitions,
more so stream
of consciousness abandonment,
yours truly rests content
to cobble, gamble, noodle... courtesy
swifty tailored stylishly harried element
mild mannered modest gent
bumbling along boulevard of
broken (po' whet) dreams intent
far less superman than Clark Kent
exercising mental cogs and wheels meant
merely to liberate momentary overconfident
zealous spontaneous inspiration,
albeit ordinarily quiescent
ex post facto concluding
equals time most salient
direct object lesson learned
lame, insipid, feeble resultant
effort generates undercurrent
aghast how rapid
(think lightspeed) went.
Yours truly his own worst critic ad aware
how avast mein kampf replete with bare
inducent to tap into latent fledgling clear
propensity to express creatively, I declare
bonafide potential to join pantheon excelsior
reserved for established authors within their
respective canon, genre, league...,
nonetheless an obvious flair
seemed evident perhaps coalesced
when in utero biological gear
yielded wiggly, ugly, scrawny,
quirky Harris heir
(sole son and second of three offspring)
an older and younger sister,
which introverted brother bullies
did constantly jeer
token scapegoat suffered
one after another kingly leer
pushing psychological state near
precipice off into dock side of moon,
who sought
(wharf far art grim reaper) to pier
without naked qualm evincing
one very bony rear
without sympathy for the devil
merely spells severely
pockmarked psyche therefore
impossible mission to set tattered self esteem
tacked toward in opposite direct where
dark shadow of doubt doth not veer
me into apathetic, horrific, pathetic...
suicidal mental state of yesteryear.
No Explanation! (I)
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Please don't ask me how deeply it hurt!
Her sun shone so bright, even the shadows were burning!
No Explanation! (II)
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Please don't ask me how it happened!
She didn't bind me, nor did I free myself.
Alone
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Why are you sad that she goes on alone, Faraz?
After all, you said yourself that she was unique!
Separation
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Faraz, if it were easy to be apart,
would Angels have to separate body from soul?
Time
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
What if my face has more wrinkles than yours?
I am merely well-worn by Time!
Ahmad Faraz [1931-2008], born Syed Ahmad Shah, was a Pakistani poet generally considered to be one of the greatest modern Urdu poets. Faraz was a poet accessible to ordinary readers due to his “fine but simple style of writing.” Ethnically a Hindkowan, he studied Persian and Urdu at Edwards College, then at Peshawar University, where he became a lecturer after receiving his Masters. During his time in college, Faiz Ahmad Faiz and Ali Sardar Jafri impressed him and became influences on his own work. Faraz was born in Kohat, Pakistan to Syed Muhammad Shah Barq. In an interview he recalled how his father once bought clothes for him and his brother on Eid. He didn't like the clothes meant for him, preferring the ones given to his elder brother. This lead him to write his first couplet:
Laye hain sab ke liye kapre sale se (He brought clothes for everybody from the sale)
Laye hain hamare liye kambal jail se (For me he brought a blanket from jail)
Faraz was an outspoken critic of Pakistan’s military dictatorship, saying, “My conscience will not forgive me if I remain a silent spectator of the sad happenings around us. The least I can do is to let the dictatorship know where it stands in the eyes of the concerned citizens whose fundamental rights have been usurped. I ... refuse to associate myself in any way with the regime ..."
Keywords/Tags: Ahmad Faraz, Pakistani, Urdu, Persian, translation, couplets, love, sun, sad, unique, separation, angels, body, soul, mrburdu
Spelling, syllable count, vanity, too simple, Simon! Be prolific, cruel, smart, up to par, above the bar, fit for the stage. Tap, tap, tap…
—by poet
The Prismatic Self
See the wooden stage, markers for my feet, bright lights, great expectations, critical analysis. Curtains will open any minute as my words make an entrance. Will my opening lyrics draw a crowd? Who will be in attendance? The theater’s not likely sold out.
Backstage, the sponsors, who are they? ATTENTION! As if a teacher wields a pointer, tapping at my feet. Will the audience throw erasers?
On the palm of my hand, the rules - perhaps strict, but I’m not in fear of a stickler. Trained by the nuns in love and hate knuckles.*
Lots of rules, I might have to practice the act for quite a bit longer. I practice in my dressing room, trying on outfit after outfit - those flouncy forms or something simple and succinct.
Am I a people pleaser? Do I perform at the pleasure of the King or Queen? Or am I my own worst critic?
Yes! Yes! Yes! No!
I desire to be seen but I will yield. There is something more important than being the lead. Still, I must confess, I must run back to my little box, mime my tears, dread my limitations, take a breath and when I am ready - take a bow.
At the onset, I must build my own backdrop, backstory, be vague and understood. I run my lines quickly, slowly, go over them again and again, even as I recite them freely, as a monoku or Shakespearian sonnet; or get even more elaborate.
I labor over each word, its placement, its meaning. I don’t care! I do care! I must feel it practically perfect; though I will let it go. Eventually, it will be a comedy of errors, erroneously erupting past the stage, in the rubber hands of cause and effect. The sponsor’s Marlboro ashes fall on it, without understanding my heartfelt meaning; my wings clipped as I await the list…the dreaded and dreadful list. Most surprised when I am the cream, alone - floating at the top.
**Fastbreast, blushing, aghast, euphoric. That sponsor is exact. I do not grow prideful. I do glow. The tip of the iceberg shows, all other words sunken, below. In leotards, the ships pass by, having a look - one clips itself.
*conceit
**Fastbreast - heart beating rapidly (Neologism)
Die Lorelei by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)- Translated by T. Wignesan
For Regina von Degenfeld at Waibstadt
-in respect and unending sufferance-
(Heine, a German Jewish lyrical and satiric poet, journalist and critic,
settled in Paris from 1831 where he married Eugénie Mirat, an unsophisticated shop-assistant which earned him ostracism and dispossession from his family and fellows, but he made her his only heir on the condition that she re-married so that at least one person would regret his passing. In 1858, he was hobbled for life by spinal paralysis.)
Ich weiss nicht , was soll es bedeuten,
Nonplussed am I, what could it signify
Dass ich so traurig bin;
Plunged as I am in such a dejected mood
Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,
A fairy tale from times gone by,
Dass kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.
In thraldom wrapped forever to brood
Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt,
Soft the cool wind buffets as the day beds down
Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein;
And ripple free courses the Rhein
Der Gïpfel des Berges funkelt
Mountain summit lights scintillate crown
Im Abendsonnenschein.
Divine in sunset shine
Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet
Exquisite maiden perched is she
Dort oben wunderbar,
On high there resplendent
Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,
Her golden accoutrements sparkle free
Sie kämmt ihr goldnes Haar.
As golden tresses combs she concupiscente
Sie kämmt es mit goldnem Kamme,
Flaxen tresses combs she with a golden comb
Und singt ein Lied dabei;
While luring strains her lips release in lyrical glee
Das hat eine wundersame,
Tinged in a soothing tuneful hum
Gewaltige Melodie.
Mighty stirring melody
Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe
The rower in his narrow boat
Ergreift es mit wildem Weh;
Seized is he with bewildering pain
Er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe,
Oblivious is he of the Rock’s craggy grotte
Erschaut nur hinauf in die Höh’.
His eyes remain fixed high above the narrow main
Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen
I believe the waves did submerge
Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn;
In the end both boatman and rowing boat
Und das hat mit ihrem Singen
And the deed did with her singing merge
Die Lorelei getan.
That Lorelei had wrought.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, January 23, 2021
No form, no organization, no verse.
A crescendo followed by silence and screams.
A wooden home locked inside of a concrete tome,
With a world collapsing while we keep relapsing
And again the past resurges; what we bury tends not to stay that way,
After all, the piper must have his pay.
A dark closet and we’ve seen fit to rot in it
The Devil in the details told me to be his advocate.
And El Dorado’s gone because a city of gold just wasn’t sustainable
But if it’s attainable then you’re damn right it’s going to be painful.
And death isn’t an option for those of us who feel compelled to keep walkin’
On the sand-- or is it ash? It doesn’t really make a difference while they slash
Their prices by depriving kids of rice and pin open their eyelids
For their twenty hour shifts ‘till they try to plummet themselves off of
Concrete cliffs.
And Macondo is Columbia, unless it’s in the Gulf of Mexico,
but you already knew that, Mr. Critic.
But what are you going to do with it?
Frankenstein was the man, not the monster
The confusion first came when our blame ceased to reclaim
An association between dissociation and our relation
To whatever the truth may have been
‘Cuz it certainly isn’t the truth anymore.
Blank pages in our textbooks and you ask me to memorize it
Regurgitate it and tell you what you want to hear--
My foods teacher says no eating in her class
And sees fit to harass her students with her utter lack
Of discernible knowledge while we cook some Kraft Mac and Cheese.
But who can blame her with the pay she’s getting?
No Telemachus on the television—Nor do we see Stephen
Not while the Situation is breathin’, cuz that’s what’s loved by the station.
Where’s the frustration? The indignation with the ignorant elation
That comes with living in a used-up world?
Dig a treasure map out of the trash and get it unfurled,
You walk to the ‘X’, but it’s been dug up—no wonder it was in there in the first place.
And the esoteric is what they find hysteric ‘cuz they’re all in on the joke
That they find so funny ‘cuz the system is broke.
Politics in work, in life, in marriage, in LIFE,
The wall of separation was torn down it seems, and soon you’ll find them tapping your dreams.
Enjoy watching your people’s nightmares, O Creators.
Tell us it’s what we want.
Geena Davis in Cutthroat Island
Generously endowed with ***** and spirit, GEENA
Engaged a most unusual leading lady role. And DAVIS
Ever so skillfully brought the audience right IN
Not one scene was lacking and it was definitely CUTTHROAT
At death, she shaved her father's head for the treasure map to Cutthroat ISLAND.
Delightful costumes enhanced her role as a pirate, never better PLAYED.
And it appears that no expense was spared to make this fantastic movie. For THE
Violence, explosions, fistfights, and duels are blasting packed, UNPRECEDENTED.
If ever there were awards for the most fun movie to make, this one would be LEADING.
So often, her laughter reminded me of a child pretending, playing the pirate ROLE.
If I were a movie critic judging on entertainment in action, I would give Geena an A.
Naturally, I, who love fantasy, like her in this role; she was: pretty, happy, and FEISTY.
Clearly, she looked like a lady, but a lady would never fight a man with her FIST
Until she was seen on a wanted poster in Jamaica, there had been no SLUGGING...
Then, the pirate, Morgan Adams, and her newly purchased slave, Shaw, needed a GUN.
The Governor's militia started surrounding them; soon bodies were SLINGING,
Her getaway met stealing the Governor's carriage and fist fighting without a SWORD,
Relentlessly pursued, fired upon by cannons with the carriage teetering, SWINGING,
Over ruts, out of town, wide eyed, escaping, and laughing, the epitome of RUTHLESS,
Real passions for a good fight, challenges, and she made pirating seem fun! AND
Throughout the action, suspense captivated; scenery and costumes were BEAUTIFUL.
In the end, she killed her murderous Uncle Dawg in self-defense using a CANNON
She saved Shaw; remained behind briefly with the treasure. No guns were FIRING.
Luckily, they dove off of Dawg’s ship before it exploded, watched by every PIRATE.
After the explosion debris had settled, up from the ocean emerged both he and SHE
Next, a marker barrel popped up. The treasure was brought on board; oh, the WOWS
Divvying was postponed; pirating would continue with Capt. “Morgan” . . .gutsy to ME!
© Name withheld for contest
February 17, 2010
Poetic form: Acrostic and End Line Word
Enea's Pope! (2)
I suppose it’s common knowledge
(and not tedious, I hope!)
that two-thirds of the Sacred College
must concur to elect a pope.
With eighteen cardinals gathered,
twelve was the number to get.
They were nervous, preoccupied, lathered,
for there was no favourite yet.
Day One turned out quite indecisive,
Calindrini accomplishing five:
Enea’s vote, far from derisive –
his five kept his prospects alive.
D’Estouteville’s position was healthy,
and he lobbied for all he was worth.
It helped to be fabulously wealthy,
and promise the voters the earth.
“I don’t want to sound like a critic,”
(thus whispered d’Estouteville in private)
“but look at him – pauper, arthritic.
There’s something you need? I’ll contrive it.”
The gist of the cardinal’s sermon
was that Enea worshipped Apollo,
and was anyway almost a German,
dire consequences were certain follow.
A cardinals’ caucus at midnight
convoked by the frenchified faction
made it seem that the tertium quid might
take a piece of the Rouenais action.
D’Estouteville himself was a teller
when they voted the very next day:
they’d do better to pick Helen Keller –
one of Enea’s votes “went astray”.
Now Enea’s on nine votes, and leading:
a silence descends on the throng.
D’Estouteville is far from conceding:
this process could well be prolonged.
In silence they sit in the Sistine,
feckless, faineant, forlorn
(the chapel itself is still pristine:
Michelangelo hasn’t been born.)
A shout comes from Borgia (Rodrigo,
that’s Cesare’s father-to-be),
“I’m switching to you, mi amigo!”
That’s one of the necessary three!
And then speaks Tebaldi of Naples:
“I’ll go with Siena as well!”
It’s looking decidedly papal,
as friends of d’Estouteville can tell!
One vote is now all that is needed,
one vote and he’s pontifex max:
one vote and he’s finally succeeded:
one vote is the one thing he lacks!
Colonna gets up from his cushion:
d’Estouteville and chums know the score:
unseemly, the shovin’ and pushin’:
they bundle him out of the door.
The spectacle can’t be called splendid.
“Enea, I’m making you pope!”
The greasy pole’s now been ascended:
It’s time for the slippery slope!
I remember the man.
He is the best friend that one could ever have,
he truly knows me like the palms of his hands;
through thick and thin he is always there for me -
I remember the man.
When I come up with lines that perfectly rhyme
he says “Gee, you are the greatest poet alive!”;
when I mess up ‘It’s good for the competition’ -
the man is my biggest fan.
He is my toughest critic and taskmaster,
not content to see me rest on my laurels,
but he does it with love shining on his face -
how I love the man.
After each fall he is there to pick me up,
when I’m up he pushes me even higher;
to him there is nothing that I could not do -
I appreciate the man.
To him this fool could not make any mistake
yet when I’m down he rushes to lend a hand,
forcing me to rise up and fight like a man -
I remember the man.
When I sin he says “It’s alright, just move on
but make a pledge to do good next time, son,
shape up, you can be a much better person” -
that man, he understands.
At times when I’m too drunk he sobers me up,
when I forget to zip up, he rushes to zip me up,
when I stink he drags me to the nearest shower -
he cares for me, that man.
Through every heartache he is there to listen,
through each pain he is the first one to worry,
in my triumphs he advertises my every glory -
how can I thank the man?
When I was younger, brash and impulsive,
he would whisper “Slow down a bit, kiddo”
but now that I’m older he says to work faster -
I can’t understand the man.
In my youth 'You’ll make Cary Grant insecure'
now that I’m old 'You look better than Redford!'
His belief in me is something I’ve never seen -
God, how I love the man.
As I face a new day I pause to give praise
to the most devoted friend that I ever had;
thank you, buddy, for being there for me -
you're a beautiful man.
I remember me.