Long Epics Poems
Long Epics Poems. Below are the most popular long Epics by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Epics poems by poem length and keyword.
Imagine for one moment, one misty mystic moment,
how best to use those golden float seconds,
moments, hours, we as mortal creatures
abnormally fritter into some quaint spurious
void known as passage.
Time's colossal collateral bequeathed unbeknownst
to each and everyone of us earthlings
that slips through a porous filter into
endless futile vapour trails, absent-minded ventures,
and vapid finger gazing.
However, sweeping statements aren’t and
never will be that sermonising torch I
brandish in broad daylight.
Such a pointless pose, a consummate dismissal
leads to skewed off-course compass points.
An aimless drift on anybody’s part beyond
the versicolour dawn, nascent noonday nugget,
rich resplendence of a sapphire twilight
should not be met with brusque distain.
A subtle pointer deftly spun seems
more than ample whenever hidebound aspect lurks.
Day and night should be immersive in their
ambience, without interlude or vacuous intrusion.
A galaxy of Three D screen epics await tellurians
divorced from deep fulfilment.
They, as spellbound junket, are poised around
each bend for instant capture, to seize and duly savour.
Why not revel in each in the moment wonderland,
that dazzling enchantment, ushered by each stroke of the resonant clock?
Craziest Time at the Time of Spilled Soup
I spilled a bowl of vegetable soup –
Slipped on the shiny waxed floor;
The scene I saw made my muse utter expletives –
Fainting in horror at the kitchen door.
Choruses of carrots crushed on the curtains
Prose of Potatoes pelted the windowpanes
Lyrics of limas littered the linoleum
Odes of onions overturned on the oven
Turnips of Thesaurus tumbling free
Sonnets of seasoning scorched on the stove top
Epics of eggplant - emjambment escaping
Ballads of beets beat feet to the back porch
Meters of mushrooms marching on marble
Verses of “vege’s” with visible vertigo
Prosody of pumpkin all over the place
Rhymes of rutabagas running-a-muck
Blues of black beans bashed in the butler’s pantry
Couplets of croutons covered the ceiling
Free verse of fiddleheads floats by the “frig”
Sestinas of spinach stuck to the sink.
Oh, what a sight of poetic distress –
Letters and phrases all over the space
Carefully sorted all the rhythms and rhymes
Put everything back in its proper place.
Craziest time at the time of spilled soup!
8/5/20
166 words
Choice #1
Patradoot or The Messenger 38 /Many
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
The charm and beauty of her lovely eyes, dear,
I could not find even in the loveliness of a deer,
Such are the fascinating charms of her eyes,
Even the Sun would not come out feeling shy.
If any tears would appear in her eyes by mistake,
It would get burnt by the shine of her eyelids, dear letter,
Even the bunch of deer moving here and there
Would feel shy to behold the beauty of such eyes.
Such lovely pairs of my beloved’s eyes would be luster less
Because of her long waiting for me and her silent sobbing,
The moment she would see and hear you, dear letter,
Tears would start coming out from her eyes like rivers.
Her face use to shine like the full Moon, dear letter,
After the tender touch of my love rains,
In compassion of seeing such beauty of her, dear,
The Moon too would feel shy to appear before her.
During the chewing of beetle leafs dear letter,
Her lips used to get red, darker than the lotus petals,
Seeing even Sun with its alluring redness would feel,
Shy to come out before my beloved, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 09th Sept 2010 continues in 39
Based on the true freedom struggle story of Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on [email protected]
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
Patradoot or The Messenger 39 /50
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
When in the nectar pond of her mouth,
My kiss use to take breathe, dear,
Even the pride of the beauties of heaven,
Seems faded before her charms, dear letter
When during her extreme laughs and passions,
The rows of her pearl like teeth appeared,
They use to wave like necklace of pearl,
In the red shines of her lovely lips, dear letter.
The round mark of her forehead used to disappear,
Whenever her face shined with luster dear,
Also during our love making,
When pride ever came in her mind, dear letter.
Such lovely face, of the moonfaced my beloved,
You would find without a smile dear letter,
The face that never bent in self respect,
You will find plight full, dear letter.
Her limbs which she used to keep covered,
With the softness and colors of beautiful silk sarees,
You would find them covered now with,
Coarse cotton Khadi colorless sarees, dear letter.
Seeing her motherland in miseries,
And her people unfed and uncovered,
She must be wearing that coarse clothes,
On her tender body in sympathy of her people,
Ravindra
Kanpur India 013th Sept 2010 continues in 40
Based on the true freedom struggle story of Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on [email protected]
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
NOT WRITTEN FOR A CONTEST
I often write about the ocean's secrets,
of its crashing waves that roar in apogee
and the treasures it washes upon the shore.
I've verses founded on tales of sailor's lore.
Stanzas about fragile seashells and abalone
and of gulls noisily squawking in cacophony.
I've penned Sonnet filled with romantic notions
in which mermaids live in depths of oceans.
I wrote I'd found Atlantis beneath the waves,
and chests of gold and silver in a maze of caves.
I am always watching out for predatory sharks,
for in ocean waters, they are considered hierarchs.
I've claimed the sun cries when twilight is nigh.
When his day his done, he yawns his 'goodbye.'
I narrated epics of its tide, controlled by the moon,
and of sirens who lure men with a beguiling tune.
Poems tell of typhoons, caused by Neptune's hand,
and of shipwrecks, men and cargo strewn on sand.
The ocean beckons to me as I stand on the cliffs.
It speaks in the breakers. My thought often drifts
to how beautiful are the waters that God has made.
It covers most of Earth's surface with salty brine.
The magnitude of its power, I would dare not define.
Much is unknown about what lies beneath the deep
but all its secrets, it seems, the ocean intends to keep.
Odin he said,’This was not what fate told.
We were supposed to die on this field.’
I shrugged and said,’There was a change of plans,
So listen up, cause here’s the deal.
The norns, you see, could he hex to whole thing
So I sent my best-looking men down,
To treat the three ladies to dancing and drinks,
A regular old night on the town.’
‘And if know them true, they’re all still in bed,
After keeping those ladies up late.
And the webs the norns cast, they fell to Earth
And to dust they did all melt away.
It’s better this way, we all did agree,
Though mythology might be annoyed.
But we aren’t losing friends to nonsense like ‘fate,’
So we broke it, and gave you back choice.’
‘We do not believe we should lay down and die,
Nor could we let y’all think the same.
So we do what we do, we altered the rules,
And made the dark ones play our game.
And your prophecies knew not our modern tech,
Nor the lessons we learned from the horrors…
To think that a wolf, a snake, and a giant
Could beat a species born into war!’
We turned and headed for the great hall
The gods still far too stunned to relate
They’d come ‘round in time, surely enough
We’d all drink, carouse, and celebrate.
And as we walked off I heard the words spoke
From the Thunderer, still shaking his head
‘It may not be what we thought was in store,
But then again, at least we’re not dead!’
And the Norns settled down with their new loves,
And soon were surrounded by kids.
I went back to the hall, found my Valkyrie,
But can’t tell you the things that we did.
And for centuries more tales with will sung,
Great stories and epics will take stock,
Of the Doom of the Gods that didn’t quite come,
Of the SEALs who stormed Ragnarok.
Patradoot or The Messenger22 /Many
English version by
Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
DESCRIPTION OF MY BELOVED’S PLACE ALLAHABAD
The city of Allahabad is called a Holy shrine since ages,
Because of the mingling of three holy rivers Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati,
Although Saraswati has vanished, it still remains a supreme shrine,
From time immemorial, which can not be determined in words, dear letter,.
The tradition of this prideful possession, dear letter,
Has been maintained by our ancestors since ages,
And many a great men have borne here, dear,
On the sacred land of Prayag or Allahabad, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 18h June 2006 to continue in 23
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
has any question or queries, they can
send me an email on [email protected]
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my father late
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor in 1932, when he was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
Patradoot or the Messenger 34/Many……….
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
Like a naughty girl, she acts in many ways, dear letter,
To attract our attention by laughing or even weeping,
And often she gets angry on us still she wins our hearts,
When she sings her broken melodies, while sweetly mumbling.
As a lovely doll, she attracts and wins,
Everyone’s attention and heart, dear,
Remembrance of her sweet face,
Has made my heart so heavy,
As a newly come-up charming bud,
She is dearer to us than our life, dear letter.
She is even a darling of all the plants,
Trees, creepers and flowers of our garden, dear.
When the memories of her dear father,
Would be splashing in her tender heart, dear letter,
She would be going amid the plants and trees,
To distract the memory of her father, dear.
She is the hope and strength of her mother,
When I am away for freedom struggle or in jail,
In the lovely face of my daughter, you would find,
An image of her father, dear letter.
By the time you will get acquainted,
With this lovely child of us and of nature,
You would recollect immediately, dear letter,
My message you have to convey to my beloved.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 3rd Sept 2010 continue in 35..
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on [email protected]
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
Patradoot or The Messenger25 /Many
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
You would find, her shining and graceful face,
Sad and gloomy, due to long separation from me,
My beloved loves wearing modesty,
More than any other gem and jewellery, dear letter.
The creator has not made any mistake,
In making her a matchless personality,
By seeing her only, you can easily decide,
She is the one who dwells in my heart, dear letter.
When the groups of Indian women, singing war songs,
Will show their presence before you, dear letter,
Showing the splendors of awakened women,
Their courage would fetch away your heart, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 2nd August 2010 to continue in 26
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
has any question or queries, they can
send me an email on [email protected]
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my father late
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor in 1932, when he was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
Beneath the sea, the train slips into shadow,
a vessel of murmur wrapped in motion,
threading two empires of thought and stone.
London behind, Paris ahead, history pulsing
in the dark between.
Above us, the English Channel stirs,
unaware of the weight we carry,
not luggage, but centuries of verse, of vision,
of the painted and the sung.
That train runs fast and faster,
The greens disappearing on both sides in a blink.
Thames and Seine, bonded with art and culture,
love and affection from London to Paris.
London,
where the Thames glides slowly with solemn pride,
It's banks cradling the ghost of Blake,
His angels watching over soot and smoke.
Tennyson once stood tall there,
Laureate of crown and grief,
His odes echoing in the marble hush of Westminster.
Turner’s storms still burn across the canvas sky,
while the city folds its myths into stone and spire,
its bridges heavy with memory.
The tunnel comes not as absence,
but as a breath held long beneath history’s weight.
The English Channel, a wonder of the world,
filled with miles to touch each coast,
a bridge of silence, a passage of dreams,
where steel and longing meet.
Paris rises, soft with light,
The Seine a ribbon of gold in afternoon hush.
The Louvre gleams with the hush of reverence,
Mona Lisa’s quiet, endless gaze,
Leonardo’s sigh forever caught in oil and air.
Here, verse spills from café tables,
Baudelaire’s decadent lilies, Rimbaud’s revolts,
and Hugo’s granite grandeur,
each echoing through boulevards like
steps in the wet after-rain.
In Versailles, once walked a stranger
whose name would alight in Bengal:
Michael Madhusudan Dutt, exiled, eloquent,
who carved epics in a borrowed tongue,
then gave it back transformed.
In marble gardens, he mourned his motherland,
His Duttabharati heart bridging Kopotakkho to Seine with sonnet and sorrow,
East to West in measured meters.
Two cities not divided by sea,
but bound beneath it, stone clasping stone,
poem clasping poem, Madhusudan to Milton,
Turner to Monet,
London and Paris, a pair of eternal mirrors,
in love with beauty, in dialogue forever.
We pass beneath that unspoken vow,
carried by steel, by memory,
by the quiet rhythm of art continuing.