Long First poem Poems
Long First poem Poems. Below are the most popular long First poem by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long First poem poems by poem length and keyword.
"melliflous birds are still cooing in the forest of my amber dreams " (by poet)
a gift from my father - on the first day of college,
"Golden Treasury"...A book of poetry...
the first poem I read... "She Walks In Beauty".
I carried that book throughout my life, even when I stopped reading poems...
even when poetry wasn't the priority any more,
Instead I looked at recipe-books - how to improve my culinary skills,
and became almost a champion chef in a few months.
Wordsworth and Browning were far away from my thoughts,
Coleridge? Oh No! Porphyria's Lover, and Ancient Mariner...
did not exist in my world of reality!
how many glorious summers went by ~ how many frosty winters ~
Delicious food, excellent company,
chasing after active children, stressing about job-opportunities,
exotic travels, grandiose entertainment ...
had time for every little trivial thing in the world...but no time for
the book my father imagined his daughter would embrace the most!
then one miraculous day...when even my father gradually forgot
the girl who used to blossom in the world of words, and poetry....
I found my precious friend collecting dust,
neglected, discarded, in the corner of a shelf.. couldn't believe it was waiting for me with a beating heart ~
each and every page came alive with a magical touch ~
still my name clearly visible, handwritten with my father's calligraphic dexterity !
almost shaking to spot my long-lost treasure, I cried!
overwhelmed with emotions, tears fell!
as if a candle burnt and melted.
every drop of tears brought back the lavender memories ~
of an exhilarating past... my passions, my yearnings,
tender dreams of lilac hues never attained, the abandoned path I was supposed to tread ...
a path strewn with lyrics and verses, ballads and
sonnets like blazing auburn leaves of autumn ~
now shockingly empty and despairingly barren.
the forgotten aspirations and never-met goals...the tremendous sense of loss,
of crushing heart-break, of torturous frustration,
all flooded in!
many lonely years have gone by!
melliflous birds are still cooing in the forest of my amber dreams
ultimately my first love has returned !
First Place
May 15, 2021
Inspired by “ He gave her a book” contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Season of death plays her melancholic tune,
tragedy portrayed through a chorus of birds.
In regret, I ponder why you left so soon,
still mourning the impact of your last words.
Demons hid some pieces of your jigsaw brain,
lost in your black abyss, troubles began to form.
Alcohol, drugs and abuse turned your life insane,
but your tongue was silent, battling the storm.
Sometimes I read the note you left behind,
saying you were sorry, but life was not kind.
If only I knew a way for time to rewind,
maybe I could have eased that troubled mind.
Guess you felt death would bring an end to the pain,
hope you found peace from a life you left in vane.
Silent One
27 October 2020
I lost a very special friend to suicide, on new years eve 1996.
It was not my only experience with suicide, but it was one that had a big impact on my life, because, I was the last person she spoke to.
Sadly, I did not get to her in time and she had already departed the world that troubled her so much. At the time, she was only 18.
For years, I struggled to come to terms with it, my coping mechanism was to blank it all out, suppress the emotions. But every new years eve, I would not do anything, it was my way of rebelling against it, I guess. I lived with regret. Sad thing was I never spoke to anyone about it.
I learned to deal with it through writing. My first poem about what happened was in 2015.
Some think suicide is selfish, but it is not. It is difficult for those left behind to deal with it, but we need to understand, people who leave the world in such a way, do not want to die, they want to end the pain.
Sometimes, no matter what we do or say, it may not help.
Always keep an eye out for family and friends, who you may think are feeling low and at times worthless. Many of us, at times, feel we do not belong.
Sometimes, the smallest act of reaching out could make a difference.
If you are feeling suicidal, there are helplines available in your country. Please call someone to talk to them. It could make a difference.
When we feel confused, oppressed, worthless, low, unloved, live a life without affection and understanding... Please remember there is always someone out there who loves and cares about you and will miss you so much if you are gone.
Sorry for the sad poem and thank you for reading.
Sappho fragment #2
translation by Michael R. Burch
How can I compete with that damned man
who fancies himself one of the gods,
impressing you with his "eloquence" ...
when just the thought of sitting in your radiant presence,
of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter,
sets my heart hammering at my breast?
Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you,
I'm left speechless, tongue-tied,
and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin.
Then my vision dims with tears,
my ears ring,
I sweat profusely,
and every muscle in my body trembles.
When the blood finally settles,
I grow paler than summer grass,
till in my exhausted madness,
I'm as limp as the dead.
And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you ...
Sappho of Lesbos was so highly regarded by her peers that she was called The Tenth Muse. That was high praise indeed, because the other nine Muses were goddesses! Sappho has given us our terms "sapphic" and "lesbian." And she wrote the first "make love, not war" poem more than 2,500 years ago! She was ahead of her time, and probably ours as well. Keywords/Tags: Sappho of Lesbos, Sapphic, Greece, Greek, translation, woman, women, girl, girls, girlfriends, love, lovers, lesbian, homosexual, passion, desire, longing, lust, sex, sexy, sensual, sensuous, relationship
SAPPHO'S POEMS FOR ATTIS AND ANACTORIA
Most of Sappho's poems are fragments but the first poem below, variously titled "The Anactoria Poem, " "Helen's Eidolon" and "Some People Say" is largely intact. Was Sappho the author of the world's first 'make love, not war' poem?
Some People Say
Sappho, fragment 16 (Lobel-Page 16 / Voigt 16)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Warriors on rearing chargers,
columns of infantry,
fleets of warships:
some call these the dark earth's redeeming visions.
But I say—
the one I desire.
Nor am I unique,
since she who so vastly surpassed all mortals in beauty
—Helen—
seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire,
departed for distant Troy,
abandoned her celebrated husband,
turned her back on her parents and child!
Her story reminds me of Anactoria,
who has also departed,
and whose lively dancing and lovely face
I would rather see than all the horsemen and war-chariots of the Lydians,
or their columns of infantry parading in flashing armor.
My first poem on the soup:
Honouring the Wartime Dead
They fought with grit to save the nation,
From poverty, squalor and infidelity,
And when they marched it was the Nazi’s or them,
Who would suffice to keep their dignity.
The Second was really over the same as the First:
The freedom and equality that democracies offer;
Hitler was not to rule the freethinking lands,
Which representative governments quietly did proffer.
Their Ladies’ which, it was said, almost flew themselves,
Were engineered by women as superior planes;
Through dogfight and bullet, over occupied territories -
The pilots exploded German ammunition trains.
In Response to My First Poem
As a child of four and five,
And right through my early primary years,
My dad talked at dinner about the war,
And of his wartime distresses and fears.
But a few times when I was really young,
He took an arm chair and gave voice,
To how he felt and dealt with his posting,
And that it was his and only his choice.
It was just him and me who had discourse,
So I dug as hard as I could but gave him his space,
For just exactly how he’d enlivened,
The plane of his of which he was an ace.
He called it to me his lady,
And from then on I understood how to handle,
Planes and all kinds and tech and devices:
That you should respect them and tangle.
He told me what the two world wars meant,
And suggested sexual sterilisation was at stake,
And that it was grit which retained the dignity,
Of the western world which did quake.
I am a political, scientific and atheistic poet,
And wished to allude to that with my first poem,
That I love poeticising culture and technology:
Computers and all that, ‘cos I know ‘em.
As a child of four or five,
I promised myself to give back to him somehow,
Most definitely in the form of a literary poem,
That knowledge he’d imbued in me, his dow.
The poem Honouring the Wartime Dead,
Also quietly murmurs atheism’s practical arms,
As my dad had quietly admonished mindset and action,
Without any reservations or qualms.
I hope that on the soup,
You find from me a good read,
Enjoyable but educational and with a view,
That lets you tell the bloom from the weed.
29/9/2015
For the A Response to my First Poem contest by Silent One.
Cycles
by Michael R. Burch
I see his eyes caress my daughter's breasts
through her thin cotton dress,
and how an indiscreet strap of her white bra
holds his bald fingers
in fumbling mammalian awe...
And I remember long cycles into the bruised dusk
of a distant park,
hot blushes,
wild, disembodied rushes of blood,
portentous intrusions of lips, tongues and fingers...
and now in him the memory of me lingers
like something thought rancid,
proved rotten.
I see Another again?hard, staring, and silent?
though long-ago forgotten...
And I remember conjectures of panty lines,
brief flashes of white down bleacher stairs,
coarse patches of hair glimpsed in bathroom mirrors,
all the odd, questioning stares...
Yes, I remember it all now,
and I shoo them away,
willing them not to play too long or too hard
in the back yard?
with a long, ineffectual stare
that years from now, he may suddenly remember.
Photographs
by Michael R. Burch
Here are the effects of a life
and they might tell us a tale
(if only we had time to listen)
of how each imperiled tear would glisten,
remembered as brightness in her eyes,
and how each dawn’s dramatic skies
could never match such pale azure.
Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure
and they tell us a tale of impatient glory . . .
till a line appears—a trace of worry?—
or the wayward track of a wandering smile
which even now can charm, beguile?
We might find good cause to wonder
as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?):
what vexed her in her loveliness . . .
what weight, what crushing heaviness
turned her auburn hair a frazzled gray,
and stole her youth before her day?
We might ask ourselves: did Time devour
the passion with the ravaged flower?
But here and there a smile will bloom
to light the leaden, shadowed gloom
that always seems to linger near . . .
And here we find a single tear:
it shimmers like translucent dew
and tells us Anguish touched her too,
and did not spare her for her hair's
burnt copper, or her eyes' soft hue.
Published in Tucumcari Literary Review (the first poem in its issue)
Keywords/Tags: youth, puberty, teen, teenage, teenagers, teen love, sex, sexy, lust, desire, date, father, daughter, chastity, virginity, abstinence, hormones, photograph, photographs, effects, ghosts, phantoms, time
Notes: Part 1 of The kiss at the tor was the first poem I ever posted on the Soup.
Some time later, my life changed and I was moved to write an alternative version.
I always thought I had posted the second part as a separate poem but, on discovering
that I never did, I have combined the two as a poem of two parts here...
The kiss at the tor (Part 1)
My soul was on fire, as I entered the wood
By the old rusty gate, which silently stood
Absorbing history, making no choice
Passing no judgement, adding no voice
The rough ancient path, veined with roots
To test my step, or scuff my boots
Unhurriedly followed the line of the brook
But this was not the path I took
I turned to the right, climbed up through the trees
Where bracken and brambles tugged at my knees
‘til I reached the edge of the open moor
And strode on up to the lonely tor
Where first we kissed on that moonlit night
Where you held me close, as I held you tight
That was the moment I was truly born
My life before you had been tattered and torn
You gave me the courage to truly be me
You gave me your love unconditionally
Yes, my soul was on fire, as you came into view
On the edge of the rock, by the magical yew
And I knew, as then, you were only her ghost
The spirit of the one I have loved the most
The kissing gate (The kiss at the tor – Part 2)
My heart was aglow, as we entered the wood
By the kissing gate, that silently stood
Preserving the memory, of all those who passed
We were not the first, and we’ll not be the last
The soft grassy path, in shafts of light
Caused us to miss, the rough track to the right
Inviting us on, as it slowly took
The meandering line, of the boulder strewn brook
Spirit and power, now came from the trees
The canopy rustled, in the warm summer breeze
While beyond the forest, on the high heather moor
The grit stone crags, of the lonely tor
Acknowledged our kiss, in the broad daylight
While you held me close, and I held you tight
This was the day I was truly born
My life no longer tattered and torn
Your love was the gift that set me free
The love that you gave unconditionally
Yes, my heart is aglow, with a love so true
Freely given, by this magical you
Now, as never, I am rid of the ghost
And with the one I love the most
-UNLATCHED-
So young myself, I was naive'
Without a doubt, I did believe
the babe, then latched inside my womb
was bound to me, and would always be
Latched on, was he, as he was fed
Then later on, our hands instead
Not tall enough to open gates
I'd reach the latch for his escape
In time he grew to need more space
The bond we had, would stretch in place
With loving smiles, I watched him play
He longed to grow, and threads grew long
He reached to climb, and fly the wind
Yet ties remained, still ever strong
Years would pass, too soon, a man
Old ties would change, yet carry on
Love came along, as it should be
My eyes, if wise, must let it be
This union blessed, was good to see
Her love for you, the world could see
It didn't mean my son was gone
Songs are sung when lovers part
But no song for a mother's heart
When new adventures come one day
Those new roads take him far away
The man he is, has been set free
To be the man he wants to be
The child he was is never gone
She's letting go, yet holding on
If once, one wish were mine to choose
So many do my thoughts pursue
But one within my heart still yearns
If just one day, the clocks would turn
Together you and I would be
Sitting here among the trees
I would hold you close, upon my knees
then turn you loose, to join the leaves...
~ ~~ ~
RESPONSE
Oh, my child, if just one wish could be our own
The sun would shine for you alone
The moon would make the time grow long
Now many moons have come and gone
and you have grown, and now you know
You have a son........who is your sun
Your son, I know, is growing strong
There'll be a time to let him go
Your child will stretch the ties that bind
Inside, you'll find a tear resides..
For letting go, .....and father's pride
are tied together ,.....such is life
And doesn't come so easily
when love has bound the heart so tight
But go, they must,... and they will flee
and we must trust them well enough
to set them free.......
__________________________________________________________
For Contest Sponsored by Silent One "Response To Your First Poem"
9/27/15
when i was a kid , a notorious one, i used to turn the world upside down
to calm me down my mother taught me the art of poetry, though it still remains a mystery
but back then when i used to write, my one line brought a thousand smiles
started with the small and silly ones but were loved by the ones who used to listen
one of my poems still hangs on the walls beautifully framed and well maintained
those were the days when they would appreciate
now that i have grown up
my dad shouts to say, stop all this nonsense and focus on the degree
the same art then loved was now not worthy
my mother says keep poetry as a hobby and studies your priority
i did as it was said quitted poetry and became a book worm
24/7 i studied and followed the norms
days passed and the hardwork paid off
admitted in one of the finest collages ,the ones never thought of
now that i had the same life like everyone's else on this planet
the one which askes us to run 365 just like a servant,
all this led to grave disappointment
i wanted to write poems that's what i believed my life was made for
poems that people could can relate to and adore
with confidence and a lots of uncertainty i quitted my work
my parents lost hope and the society ignored
but i knew my words were my beauty
and relate to what people feel and pen them down became my duty
the first poem i wrote was called
"THE JAME'S BOND"
which described the life of a normal person ,his duty meant to perform
my words became my life and then there came the prize
let me be more precise and call it
the love of my life
met her in an auditorium ,sitting in the black velvet dress right across the podium
as my show got over she ran upto me and asked for a favor
asked me to read her poems once and later give her some assistance
but to my surprise , her poems were so deep that i fell for it and did not even realize
time , feelings and words brought our hearts close
what beautiful moments were those
soon my family accepted me when i reached the paths of glory
listen to your heart ,is the moral of the story
even though the time r hard ,do not worry
try hard till the moment , that later in life u don't fell sorry
Employed by Boeing before I retired
An engineer, then into management
I had good writing skills, as were required
When I wrote, you could tell what was meant
Poetry wasn’t of interest to me
For the first seventy five years of life
In fact, when my three daughters lived with me
They had no interest; neither did my wife
Interest first kindled by Troy, my grandson
With his poems, written for an eighth grade class
E-mailed to me, read them all and when done
Wrote my first poem, it came together fast
While at my desk, looking out the window
I observed a robin seeking a worm
While watching his movements, let my words flow
Wrote “Bobbin the Robin “and interest firmed
Asked Troy if he’d like his poems in a book
Maybe enter his best in a contest
Joined poetry websites; learned what it took
And we entered poems, but mostly in jest
Demands are high on a teenager’s time
Troy’s poetry was on the back burner
I kept composing with words that rhyme
I posted, although I’m just a learner
Didn’t know when I posted on the sites
The members were free to give them a read
And just the thought of that gave me a fright
But found out member comments fill a need
When I Read the comments on my poems
Fascinated by what they say
Encouraging with so much support
A sincere one would make my day
One commenter had interest in my work
When as a poet, I become seasoned
Given my age, I couldn’t help but smirk
I never live that long is the reason
Meaningful comments received on my work
Keep me involved and my efforts on tract
Without them, my work I’d probably shirk
My fellow poets made such an impact
My first poems were all written in Quatrain
It’s a form that was came natural to me
At the time, didn’t even know the name
But rhythm and rhyme, my poems had to be
Explored forms with which I’ve never dealt
It’s never too late to learn something new
Over a hundred poems under my belt
Trying something else was the thing to do
To my fellow poets, I say, "Thank You!"
You’ve made this an enjoyable pastime
I now know it’s something I love to do
Molding my thoughts into rhythm and rhyme
I just found myself clicking and
reading one of my favorite poet's Jennifer Proxenos poem's called
An Early Addiction
In which she spells out her joy
and love for poetry and how she
got started
Which inspired me to try make
sense and write or tell my story
After all is not the point of great
poetry to inspire other's
And i realized i have been posting
on soup for over 10 year's now
Given my lack of patience and
limited attention span 10 year's
may as well be a lifetime to me
The only thing i can recount or
recall when it comes to poetry
is that my Dad wrote a poem for
my niece Kayleigh
Otherwise i have no starting point
from which to begin
As when it comes to school i
was never interested in english
and barely passed with a D
To this day my spelling is atrocious
and my gramma little better
Sad as it may be to admit but i can
count the number of books i have
read on the fingers on one hand
and that's discounting index finger
and thumb
My sister was an accomplished
english student and even joked
it took me a week to read a comic
I only started or even wrote my first poem closer to fourty than thirty
year's of age
How on earth and why i'll never know
but i am eternally grateful i did
My only regret is i did not start before
my father died and i could not share
my poem's and poetry with him
And although i am not a poet
persay more like a driver
who needs assistance and
to use a sat-nav to get places
may need to cheat and use
spell check
That my wrote and verse which
posted ascertained as ugly duckling
attempted writting to me is shrouded
in my inner thought expresses
Are to this day still some of my
most proud achievement once
reading back
So much so i struggle to find
the me in self and fully
grasp my worth
Yet here i write and stand cap in
hand begging fir an auidance
proud of most of what i have wrote
Poetry is a passion
Poetry is my drug
Not merely just a hobby
Or passing phase
So cheers
Yours Sincerely
Kind regards
Thanks anyone for reading
From i the understated
Undersigned
Christopher of Flaherty