Long Dizzied Poems
Long Dizzied Poems. Below are the most popular long Dizzied by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dizzied poems by poem length and keyword.
Longing in lowly light of longer days
by which a summer wilts paternal dreams
and browns the loitered heaves of yellow spring:
the budding void that stamps an empty swing
seen swaying golden locks ungated beams
my own Begotten streamed in greener dawn
where fussy forums for an April fawn
allay no muttered march on mother’s May.
Persistent blades unsheathe the sprawling grass
beneath the blue release of silver dew -
an inch overgrown, as inch shrouded cool
billows: arisen reeds from dizzied drool
showing flashes of reincarnation
cured by the rose (or purple carnation)
4/4/17
He snatched me, cuddled me,
A straying lamb in the wild.
I peeked into his eyes; a flame danced.
I cupped my mouth, mumbled:
In love with me!
He pressed me to his heart;
Kissed my boney cheek.
I stink, don't I? My lips trembled.
He whispered: To clean you up,
My love; that's why I came.
My love ... Me! I began to shiver.
His face gleamed, You're mine.
I, a hostage! My eyes bulged.
I wriggled, tried to get off him;
His arms tightened, nestling me.
I wanted to cry, my voice vanished.
Giant eagle clutching a prey, he lifted.
We soared, I dizzied, the wild receding.
Still dazed, I clung, clenched my eyes
Till we punched through the clouds.
I peeped, looked around; dark cloud below,
The blue above. I squinted at him. You, saved me!
He smiled: I've searched for you!
Warm tears crawled down my cheeks.
© 2013 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
from: "Me to You", by Alastair Reid
"...write me about the weather.
Perhaps
a letter across water,
something like this, but better,
would almost take us strangely
closer to home.
Write, and I'll come."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monterrey, Nuevo Leon
Dizzied by the whirl of crowds
On sidewalks, seen through windows --
Reflected in mirrored, columned walls --
I drink, I eat, I mull and fret, I yearn,
Little lulled by homely music
Softly playing beneath sonorous
Strains of Spanish
(Beautiful tongue, not yet my own,
But now not strange to me --
Not wholly foreign.)
I sneak sidelong glances, I peek, I stare.
I feign indifference:
A pseudo-cosmopolitan air.
I am quiet and excessively polite,
Not yet knowing how to be rude
In this still stiff idiom.
And, I am intensely lonely --
Hungry for a caressing, offhand phrase,
Only a stray familiar word, hardly heard,
Whispering all there is to say of home.
I.
My whole body was trembling in shock
My blood, as if flowing back to my heart, dizzied
My vision as I kept on
In my delirium to aid the young man spitting
up his own organs beside me.
His organs are my organs.
The sound was clear and very loud and
My leg was gone. And if I was so permitted
I was to rage on for the Lord on one.
For to rage on I must.
II.
This passionate young man, Adolf,
Exciting them all among beer and music, politics and games.
Straining his voice.
What do they want me to say?
His voice is my voice.
And he is just a boy, and I just a messenger.
The crowd before us like wet clay pleading for shape.
Then let it be so, I will try,
For to rage on I must.
III.
Only my voice with Him now and the damp
Stone that surrounds high above in this prison
With suited men loaded with guns below among
Trampled flowers that carried my name across
A still-molding country and
His guns are my guns, and His name wants my name,
And I will give it to Him because
Still! Still! Still I rage on.
Though no one is here
to hear.
So I pray. I pray still.