Long Editor Poems
Long Editor Poems. Below are the most popular long Editor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Editor poems by poem length and keyword.
This weekend's reading
It appears a rare type of moss thrives on
Mars climate, soon we will see a green planet
and since one thing leads to another there
will be rabbits and foxes and perhaps sheep
We are delighted to see Maron lost his gamble
and we can look forward to sane policy
that can help end the Ukraine war by using
the trusted negotiation? Probably not
Hungary is in charge of the EU for six months
Orban, the man, is getting busy fighting
EU, democracy and hopefully win on point
but von der Leyen, the president of moss
grown countries will still be there.
a leading newspaper is glad Assange has
are free, we wilt long memories remember
when it vilified our Julian, but we will be
magnanimous and forgive the written
sometimes an editor has to bend to the will
of shareholders
I just wanted to thank Poetry Soup for, well, for being, for existing as a format for poets to share their hearts and souls. I can hardly believe it's been 6 years (gulp!) since I first posted a poem here--it was about that time that I started writing poetry again after a 30 plus year hiatus since I stopped writing anything in my early 30's. Why I stopped or why I began again, I don't know: Who can explain creativity? But somehow I found Soup and well, a community. So may I thank, on behalf of that community, all you unsung heroes who maintain the 'Soup'.
And as to all those who add their 'ingredients' into the Soup, let me commend ALL of you. In those same 6 years I have not read a single poem that was pretentious, egotistical, idiosyncratic to the point of being so obscure as to seem meaningless--in other words, so called 'modern' contemporary poetry as favored by a depressing number of lit mags today. I've learned at last to stop wasting my time submitting to such [and certainly not if they demand a reading fee] as I-- fool that I am-- continually strive to find meaning in both what I write and what I read. One editor even warned not to send anything that 'conveyed' a meaning, and in no uncertain terms did he want did he want to hear anything about the soul or the heart or-God forbid!- God.
I suspect this is why so many people are turned off by modern poetry today-- and who can blame them? Wasting time reading a bunch of big/obscure/erudite words strung together, only to scratch your head wondering what the hell did that all mean? The best poems are often very simple: 'to be or not to be', 'death kindly stopped for me', 'the Lord is my shephard' -- but they always take you SOMEWHERE [though it may not be a place you immediately recognize]. The best poems, I believe, increase awareness, not leaving you feeling confused, perplexed, frustrated ['what the hell did that mean?' ] This does not mean they give you answers --but they may suggest some. And as modern society becomes increasingly at odds with itself, at risk quite literally of fragmenting, some insight would seem as valuable as it is rare.
The contests are fun at Soup and many demonstrate how clever and knowledgeable Soupers are about the myriad poetical forms. I have to say, though, I wish there were more thematic contests--open to any form that served to enlighten the proposed theme.
The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch
(for my mother, Christine Ena Burch)
The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,
his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.
His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.
His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.
Alternate Title: "Poetry Slam: The Hangup"
Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poems, poetry, poetic expression, rhyme, editor, publisher, mother, readers, recite, recitation, reciting, performance, writing, reading, rap, slam, phone, telephone
Smothered by doubt,
I claw to get out,
Scraping away shouting,
'What's this all about?"
Falling outside the lines,
They say I'm divine,
Yet I'm trapped in a vine,
Intertwined in a timeline,
That I didn't design,
I'm feeling benign,
Refining my reality,
Into a day I want to see,
I awaken only to find me,
Standing before the key,
That unlocks the mystery,
As history repeats itself,
Selfish desires rise,
Lighting fire to the prize,
My inner child cries,
I shout for my demise,
I'm wise to the trendsetter,
Doubting I could make it better,
Writing letters to the editor,
Trying to stop the predator,
Creditors knocking on the door,
Floored by the cost to be,
I hold the key to more,
I'm exploring what I'm here for,
Smothered by a need for more,
I fall back to the floor,
Stored emotions pour out,
Again I'm doubting what it's all about.
A Poet Plus Mathematician
Basically Mathematician
yet poetry and rhythm of poem
embedded in mind.
Analytic approach
in every poem gets priority.
of course on rhythmic resonance.
Started career as School Teacher,
shortly continued as College Lecturer.
Later entered in field of writing
turning professional Writer and Author.
Worked in broad spectrum,
as Talker in All India Radio,
acted as Editor of a Bengali Science Magazine.
Span of activities went wider,
Composed Drama to be staged
and to broadcast and telecast.
Conducted Educational project.
Simultaneous hobbies in Drawings, Paintings.
Competence in Knitting, Designing
to display and sell in Exhibitions..
In the last phase of my life,
as activities automatically are in decreasing mode,
I am an intruder in the world of English Poetry,
Me, rather battling to venture the contests on poetry
with my limited vocabulary in English.
No way, this is just my last creation cum recreation.
I enjoy.
There is no trace of them on face book,
No matter how hard you look,
It is no better,
To go on Twitter,
And you would not want to be talked in,
To having a debate on LinkedIn.
Letters to the Editor are now,
Just for show,
At most meetings you are kicked out at nine,
Which leaves too short a time,
For the subject to define.
Table talk is all but gone,
And you would get more out of debating with a stone,
Doing it alone,
Is hard to condone.
And doing it on the phone,
Leaves one headache prone.
Soap boxes are no longer safe to stand on,
And politicians only debate when they have no legs to stand on,
As having principals is now frowned upon.
Schools still have them,
And my children did well in them,
Though the topics did not make sense to them,
Yet like me they found Toastmasters a good fit to them,
Until they outgrew them.
Occasionally we get to debate,
Which ends in a stalemate,
As one or the other disappears out the gate,
As emotions spoil the debate,
So we prefer to play Chess than end up in a state.
A weekly debate with a friend,
Gives me a small dividend,
And cheers me up no end,
Even though we are often on common ground,
The table we never pound,
And a winner is never found.
Yet I still lament,
The lack of fresh comment,
That could cement,
An outcome half decent,
In a world full of the incoherent,
That is in danger of a fast descent.
The hands circle the clock
as I watch the minutes pass
into soundless history.
After a time or so
his eyes speak and vocal cords
try once again to master
that foreign language spoken
by both the aged and the young
when thoughts cannot find the words.
My hands cradle his face
as I kiss the salty brow
of his altered memory.
While teardrops freely flow
our eyes meet and two soul mates
sing an old refrain together
in a language understood
by both musicians and poets
when rhythm strikes the right chords.
June 26, 2019
contest: Poetry Anthology, Music Theme Poetry Contest by Geraldine Taylor
to honor the work being done in using music to spark the
memory of patients with Alzheimer’s disease and dementia.
written originally for an online newsletter, Music Therapy Matters, Spring 2008, Angie Elkins, editor.
When I appear there Nature seems to
Dance and dance and dance,
When I disappear she is prone to
Weep and weep and weep.
Withdraws all clouds from sky to set a
Splendid scenery,
So that me rising from the river
Afresh may there espy.
Whether it sun or shower or snow or
Storm, when I arise
To set my arms, the setting Sun
Certainly will be there.
Women who go to the river for bathing
Choose my choicy time,
So that there they may bathe in warm and
Yellow sunshine time.
Now here a plant blossoms and blooms and
Soon another there,
Here Spring is reappearing, with her
Bring all beauties back.
Nature is dancing with her rhythmic
Steps and divine smile,
Why can't I row a boat here swaying
To and fro on waves?
The valleys wear their flowery carpets,
And the mountains are
Once again clad in colours, such this
Sylvan scene is set.
White cranes are there always on serene
Haunted islets sit,
Or stand by whiter cows there grazing
O'er the lushy green.
Suppose some Beauty glance and dance in
This wild atmosphere,
Then surely that's a dance to see, when
Mother Nature dance.
So Nature takes the pen out of my
Hands and writes for me,
May that there me, the clouds and cranes and
Cows and waves witness.
On cloudy days, practically there will be no sun to see. But it was my insistence that when I rise up after bathing in the river and look up to the sky, the sun should be there in the western horizon for me to worship. If it is a heavy raining day, I will select the time to go to the river according to when the rain will have a possibility of abating. Even on the heaviest raining days in the east, nature is benevolent enough to uncover sun at least for a few seconds. I will select this time to rise up from the river with my eyes closed and fervently wishing for father sun to be there when I open my eyes. With closed eyes when we look westward, standing river fresh, I don't know what makes it happen but the sun will always be there though sometimes be for only a few seconds. It is like this life-giver listens to fervent wishes of his off-springs and grants them.
A Poem By P.S.Remesh Chandran. Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books. Trivandrum.
Read more about our views on poetry and about our various poetry editorial services, kindly visit http://poetryeditservice.blogspot.in/
The Paths We Choose
by Edmund Siejka
When I was a young writer
I read all the greats
Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Yeats, James Joyce
And so on
I could write like them I said
So I felt good about myself
And wrote a play
In the heat of August, 1976.
Beating the lines on an old portable typewriter,
Rubber mat placed under its steel frame,
To keep from annoying the neighbors
But the walls in the East Village were thin
And next door guessed
What are you doing writing a novel?
She asked
I kept typing
And the rejections piled up
It was then I realized that I was attempting the near impossible
So I stopped.
Something came over me
I started writing again in 1992
Two unpublished novels
And inevitably
The mailman would trudge up the front steps
Lips pursed in a tight, thin line
Rejections coming in like a winter storm
I poured over each one trying to decipher their true meaning
But it was no use.
I wrote a poem in 2009
To my surprise it was accepted
Followed by an email from the editor
Requesting more of my “stuff”.
Someone recommended that I give a reading
At a local library
Start small they advised.
And so I found myself
In a crowded room of poets and strangers
When my name was finally called
I approached the podium
Determined and focused.
After reading my piece
I searched
The audience for their reaction
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Sarumino -BASHO MONKEYS RAINCOAT is unique in Renku ,the ancient collaborative form(36 stanza linked verse poems)with examples from Basho(and his disciples...)namely Winters First shower/Summer moon/Katydid/and Plum young herbs, considered to the most typical of Basho's mature style conveying his attitude to life & compiled during his 1689 'Back Roads' pilgrimage ,the translator/editor adds both a cultural commentary for each stanza therein and an index of informative notes thereto
A haikuist was Matsuo Basho
his masterwork,Kasen *you know
He practiced this long poetic sequence
a 36 stanza poem recited in length
*www.jstor.org/stable/2718744