Long Diderot Poems
Long Diderot Poems. Below are the most popular long Diderot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Diderot poems by poem length and keyword.
She smiles
and considers the crowd,
all backward somersaulting
detached vagabonds, all,
serious soft smalls revealed -
marshmallows imbued
with the glee of writing
irregular poetry;
works of art thou art,
thou art, thou art, all indeed -
and what did Dickinson say,
“the Maples never knew
that you were coming -
I declare, how red
their faces grew” -
well, we all march on,
and by the side of our roads,
the righteous town criers
of prognostication, stand
their grounds for commentary,
like sensate servile monks
full of the base sound facts,
ringing their shellac bells,
like an exercise in pulling weights;
the waits inside their cries foretell,
of the things we do not know,
will never know,
like the bride we all are,
gullible, innocent of what is to come,
but we dance our dance
flirting with luscious life
beckoning come hither,
we still write our own vows,
and throw our skirts asunder,
spinning bottles, all undressed
half addressed half said,
punctilious lost in
wayward pentameter,
such bad whirling dervish
behaviour,
truth and dare
and Father Time
will kiss and tell
we poetically march on
we all march on
we think we know
which side we're on
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“All those Hills you left for me to Hue,
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued”
Emily Dickinson. March.
underneath
his trenchcoat
he was
in possession
of a bent quill
he used it to tickle
words out of his
avaries of birds
moon-eyed and
sucker-punched
they adored the
dripping honey
he spooned
into their
unworldly
wide-open bills
his avarice
for swollen
notoreity
observed
by the dark
night-eyed
hunters
while he,
unsuspecting,
stalked
newly commissioned
clean and unmarked boxes
with his know-it-all
best bumbling
holy-roller turns
the nights
are full of obsessed
decent hunters
lit matches
with an arsenal
of thoughts
and a granary
of words
ready to burn
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"The Bookkeeper"
what guides the mind,
that guides the hand,
of those stories
that are written
and delivered?
they are already set
in the Other's
firmament.
the numbers
of time
in a heart
marked singular,
and transparent,
the soul’s promises
kept and unkept
in contract,
the foregone
conclusions
for page turning
calculating prophets,
pure and impure
the many
gains and losses
in the Other's
assumed absence;
in rhythm and rhyme
all the ways to go -
were laid
in a book,
embedded,
for you long ago -
the choice was yours,
the gift freely given,
the freedom opened,
the Love
drawn
automatic
seen in the mirror's
reflection
Entry,
your token.
all your stories
read,
all your stories
ghost written.
Candide Diderot. ‘24
When your heart
corresponds
with your mind,
then, give it a shot,
you write
back to me
what expressions
you so badly
need
to bleed;
the characterisation
of letters
are alphabet soup
to me, child's play,
peeling tattoos
like bells ringing
over a tongue
not speaking,
I swallow words
hungrily
then I spit them out,
bullets that pierce
a page,
bulls eyes
staring back
through the black holes,
the other silent horns,
all silently complicit
small missions
of truth
cornucopias,
wearing through
the thin fabric
of ludicrous
fantasy
feathers that fall
from soft pillows
quaking against
levees breaking
the barriers hitting marks
the sands of time broken,
river banks splitting,
the bodies drowned
and sucked up
like works of art
in a hyped up
Hieronymus Bosch,
if you are in deep
you can make sense
of it all,
you know you're in it,
that picture, way, way
up to your eyeballs
brushing against
all the others, removed,
flotsam and jetsam
in the wash, sensing
the path they all took,
but the mystery
of never quite knowing,
like a smell, pervades
charcoal tears
melt all the ways
a heart can be kicked
down and gutted
witnessed through
gilt edged windows
full and jaded
to a gate opening,
the sound cracking
like a mouth
terraforming
dustied and green
the shaman soul
found underneath
it all, humourously
rustling sage over
the external,
a serious novice
for burning
small
exorcisms
smoking out
renegades, those
stubborn seeds planted
in long spent sentences,
those true romantics,
the forgotten ill-bred,
well-tilled, rebel poets
small
exorcisms
for burning
Candide Diderot. ‘24
violins.
“Key”
Thirty pieces of silver.
That ancient story of betrayal
sits shining next to thee,
It flips poetic meaning supernaturally.
We wonder how We came
to this Synchronicity.
The upturned face,
a legacy.
Seeking answers
listening to silence, unanswered.
The questions evade.
The mind lifts,
the sharp point drops its messages
into the grooves of other dimensions played out
like a child’s game where we wave in lyrics,
where the music silver lines the terra firma roads
along the landscape of Life’s turntable.
Inside you something turns, burning
a flame inside a Memory
presents a key.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“In the sharp gust of love
My memory stirred
When time wreathed a rose
A garland of shame
Its thorn my only delight
War torn, afraid to speak
We dare to breathe
Majestic
Imperial
A bridge of sighs
Solitude sails
In a wave of forgiveness
On angels' wings…”
(Siouxsie & The Banshees)
Matthew 26 NIV
“On the Back of Atlas”
On the back of Atlas my whole world sat
as if seated upon the golden thoughts
of a fast loose dominant god all seeing
the Sky, eyes of cobalt blue
marbled with stone cold clouds.
the Heart -
the Ark of the Covenant
well-hidden,
keeps its fresh green secrets;
On the back of Atlas my whole world sat
as if seated upon the golden thoughts
of a fast loose dominant god all seeing
the Sky, eyes of cobalt blue
marbled with stone cold clouds.
“Orion walked on water too”,
echoes in the mind of the Tenth Muse,
what matters little
mostly survived in fragmentry form,
is now lost;
On the back of Atlas my whole world sat
as if seated upon the golden thoughts
of a fast loose dominant god all seeing
the Sky, eyes of cobalt blue
marbled with stone cold clouds
took me over,
spoke It’s lot,
“as above,
it must be below” -
the Sky, eyes of cobalt blue
marbled with stone cold clouds,
spoke to what is seated inside
for all it was worth,
“the Heart -
the Ark of the Covenant
well-hidden,
keeps its secrets -
there lies Truth
where Truth lies sleeping”
Candide Diderot. ‘25
“As Dawn rose up in her golden robe from Ocean's tides,
bringing light to immortal gods and mortal men,
Thetis sped Hephaestus' gifts to the ships.”
The Iliad/Homer (Book 19)
'Hear me, all you gods and all goddesses too,
as I proclaim what's brooding deep inside me.
Today the goddess of birth pangs and labor
will bring to light a human child, a man-child
born of the stock of men who spring from my blood,
one who will lord it over all who dwell around him.'
But teeming with treachery noble Hera set her trap,
'You will prove a liar . . .
when the time arrives to crown your words with action.
Come now, my Olympian, swear your inviolate oath
that he shall lord it over all who dwell around him—
that child who drops between a woman's knees today,
born of the stock of men who spring from Zeus's blood.'
The Iliad/Homer (Book 19)
"Well"
Well,
I’m way too romantic
aren’t I?
Tattoo’d poetry
on a tongue
not
speaking
on a body of work
spent unspent
love let loose
on a deep
French Kiss
tatoo'd poetry
on a tongue
locked in
your everything
diving deep 6
into you
like Persephone
underground
I’d rather be a carwreck
driven 100 mph or more
slammed up against your wall
with purile certainty
fingers entwined
the plot curled, legs twisting
fingers deep
in ink
Well, bursting
I’m deep
like deep Red bells tolling
out there
in that walk on water
ocean of yours
sharks circling
I ride
their sandpaper backs
holding tight onto their quartz fins
their razor sharp teeth
cutting up all my pages
in the in-between
emerged in everything
the losses over
every winning win
the black and white
Orcas circling grin
wolves like words
come to save me
and I am yours
eventually, heaven ridden
Well,
I’m deep
6 ft in
another
4 and 20
blackbirds
risen
Candide Diderot. ‘24
What he forgot
while he was lying
on the beach
wriggling his toes
in the warm sand
thinking it pliable
with the sensual
hand-in-hand,
was that given
enough heat,
sand melts,
becomes glass,
not so pliable
it has the capacity
to break and shatter,
worse,
when you consider
all things
about
sharp edges,
it can hurt
unintentionally,
walking barefeet,
either way it
has the capacity to
make people
bleed,
add in a little
lightening,
weaponised
fulgurite,
caught in the middle
of all that,
you
could crumble
like Lot’s wife
looking back,
trying to find
an ounce of good
in a grain of sand,
abandoned
with the sting
of salt in wounds
split wide open
laid useless
under a merciless sun
I’d rather be
a very deep
cool
ever-changing
kaleidoscopic
sentient
blue ocean,
in command
rolling over the sand
bringing it back out with me
I'd carry it in my mouth in my mind
keep it wet
where it would live
inside the urgency
of my crashing body
to dance with it in the flow
transporting it to other realms
on the slippery backs
of smooth skinned
dolphins,
swallowed
in the slick, sharp
wide open smiles
of the ancient
megalodon
looking for his
lost teeth,
where there, he's gone
all Neptune,
chasing sirens
and their pearls
seeking amongst
the foamy wash
of them all,
the shining
Amphitrite
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"Milk", Garbage.
“Higher Love”
When my world burned
I was drowning,
knowledge became borne
from the wisdom of failure,
It ate me up and consumed me,
bit me with its sharp nine-inch nail teeth
like a vampire,
ravenous, straight into the blood-rich heart of the matter.
I understand things are being delivered, regularly,
travelling feverishly into the minds of all,
some acknowledge truth, most ignore -
it's simply torturous - for most - to believe;
The great programmer
has turned the key inside me,
my mind ignited burns foolishly
walking on water
upwards
oblivious
to the Unknown;
vibrations unseen
fearlessly power me on;
whatever comes,
I am more than prepared;
less than you, you assume.
Perhaps you don't know me at all.
Do Your worst,
bring It on -
Love.
Candide Diderot ‘26
“…and the stars in the sky fell to earth, as figs drop from a fig tree when shaken by a strong wind.”
"Small Revolutions"
She must be a blessing in disguise
that burning heart scorching life
in small revolutions
on another page
the writer reads Her
sees Her ultimate worth
the reader on the Other side
lives and learns
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and being alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You have to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes too near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.”
(The Painted Drum by Louise Erdrich)