Long Goths Poems
Long Goths Poems. Below are the most popular long Goths by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Goths poems by poem length and keyword.
I was there when old Troy burned,
all the babies I dashed and hurled,
slayed Hector and Achilles,
made Priam scream in agony.
I was there at the Fall of Rome,
snuffed a light half the world had known,
slammer the door on the Classic Age,
with angry Goths storming in a rage.
Next I came for the Byzantines,
to put down that stubborn Roman dream,
emperor fell in the battle rough,
let loose the Ottomans on Europe.
You can’t get rid of me,
I‘m what you don’t want
but you know that you need.
Some things will always be,
but you hate, you hate, you hate
to be a part of me.
I strode tall at Yorktown’s field,
helped George Washington seal the deal,
Cornwallis for surrender begged,
clearing the road for freedom ahead.
I struck hard at Richmond’s line,
in the trenches, in the muck and grime,
until Lee fled from Petersburg’s route,
I hounded him and brought down the south.
I took the sword to the Nazis,
slaughtered Krauts there at Normandy,
took France with Patton’s tanks,
saved some Jews from monsters rank.
You can’t get rid of me,
I’m what you don’t want
but you sometimes need.
Some things will always be,
and you hate, you hate, you hate
To be a part of me.
But it’s your fate, your fate, your fate
To be the heart of me.
Poetic paean to papa's princess
Otherwise titled:
Mien wonderful wedded divine wife
whose piercing deliverance...,
a balm ameliorating tattooed strife
despite being dirt poor,
I cherish her pricelessness, how nice,
a beacon complementing/
supplementing homelife,
who will forever be with me
even during our (mine
atheistic couched) afterlife.
She, the mother
of our deux darling daughters, I adore
though ofttimes, she never knows...
expressing love tis quite an arduous chore
concerning me upon this (we quietly celebrate
wedding anniversary two days hence, whoa...
how quickly time doth pass, cuz we wed
yes already number xxiv, i.e. twenty four)
orbitz around the sun, we reminisce...
So much emotional turbulence
nearly rent asunder,
I accept culpability (yours truly)
strayed against sacred covenant
went wayward intrepid misdeeds
nearly perilously upended marriage,
said vaguely worded insensate blunder
wrought catastrophic upheaval
reigned analogous how millenniums ago
Vandals, Huns, Goths,
et cetera did plunder
and ransack the
outer limits of Roman empire
our pledged troth shattered,
whereby the missus outclassed Zeus,
she emitted deafening thunder,
yet annulment nor divorce,
she would not grant
sigh of great relief
and mystery I wonder...
To this July twenty third -
how hands of father time
speedily lept away
two thousand and twenty,
an (extra) ordinary day
to be alive and appreciate sticktoitiveness
toward her, whose troth I pledged
courtesy thee (sacrilegious infidel)
mine discreet liaisons spouse forgave
NOT telling me hike along highway
and/or boulevard of broken dreams, motorway
avoided, cuz she thee missus
WANTED me to stay
in role of legally wedded husband
(and father to deux special grown lasses)
when they (progeny)...
were just newborn babes yesterday!
KING ALFRED THE GREAT MODERN ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS
King Alfred the Great (c. 849-899), arguably the first great king of England, may have done more to lay the groundwork for English literacy and literature than any other English monarch. And he was quite the scholar himself, although there is no consensus that the following translations were primarily Alfred’s work. He could have done the translations himself; he could have overseen the work; or he may have commissioned the translations. No one really knows.
Alfred the Great undertook to translate “the most needful works for all men to know.” He wanted to succeed “both in war and in wisdom.” Alfred has also been credited with helping to develop a new English prose style.
The Meters of Boethius: Prelude or Verse Preface
attributed to King Alfred the Great, circa 880 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Thus begin the tales King Alfred taught us.
The great West Saxon ruler, in his cunning,
Understood the art of all songmen,
Revealed his great skill as a poet.
Keenly he longed for Saxons to craft such songs,
To make men merry with manifold amusements,
To ward away world-weariness with pleasing poems.
Alfred loved poetry for its art and power,
Longed for it to free men from both boredom and pride.
But the arrogant man, in his self-importance,
Pays little heed to wise words. Still I must speak,
Begin my singing, weave tales well-known
For attentive mortals. Hear me, if you will.
Boethius Lay I: The Goths
from King Alfred the Great's Meters of Boethius, circa 880 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Long ago the Goths left Scythia,
swarms of shieldmen streaming from the east,
two savage tribes tramping southward,
both growing in greatness year by year.
Under the rule of two remarkable kings,
Raedgod and Aleric, their people prospered.
Many Goths made it across the Alps,
intent on conquest, raging with war-lust.
Braying brazen battle-boasts, eager to attack
the awaiting Romans, their armor flashing,
stout shieldmen descended, waving war-banners
and slashing swords.
They intended to overrun Italy...
Keywords/Tags: Alfred the Great, Old English, Anglo-Saxon English, Boethius Translations, West Saxon, poet, poetry, art, power, pride, wise, wisdom, king, kings, leadership, war, battle, England, literature, words
He’s together now, they say,
turned out, free to walk the street;
adult child turned out to play
amid grey walls of concrete
streets strewn with disposed joys,
the stench of human fluids.
Bozos wave their lethal toys;
aging goths, pseudo druids,
faces lit by flashing screens.
promenading, zombie-dead
watch desperate dancing teens,
nature’s lemmings, AI lead.
He’s together now, He’s told,
so discharged, they need the bunk;
adult child thrown in the cold
amid barely walking drunk
searching, seeking that which numbs
the pain, soul-crushing shame.
Left to beg for others’ crumbs
he just has himself to blame
they say, go scare up some work.
he does, then try as he might
he’ll catcall some guy a jerk,
end up in another fight.
Romanus country
Romania to us
Iron curtain frontier
Dismantled by fuss
Like us all invaded
But by Goths and the Huns
Typical past history
Populations on the run
The Ottoman Empire, absorbed their souls
A free Romania the ultimate goal
Modern Romania has had its fears
The first world war
In neutrality gear
But by 1916, they released their fear
Allies they joined
As they sung the same song
Austria-Hungary they fought
To get rid of the wrong
In the second world war
Under Stalinist pressure
To remain neutral
Avenues of different measures
The Axis they joined
Once again with the Hun
With Italy and Japan
Their armies over run
Second world war over, but left with a horrific scar
Another country that went to far
Their part in the holókauston
A non defend-able time
The Antonescu regime
Crossed the line
Antonescu's approval for the removal of Jews
To concentration camps, quite horrific news
Eichmann and Richter, confirm the above
Jewish families on their final shove
The most recent chapter, in this ancient place
Nicolae Ceausescu, the people he would face
With the recent demise of the Berlin wall
This dictator so horrid, would also fall
A two hour trial on television
Would see him sentenced to his execution
Taken outside, him and his wife
For treason and genocide, they were shot on sight
Romania to date
A democracy
No longer Iron Curtain
A country now free
" In dedication to the Romanian Poets on Poetry Soup "
Some claimed that Camelot was noble,
a place built upon the stony ground
of good-intentions,
it was new and fangled,
it was progressive
in a time of little progress.
I have seen it, I was there,
always there was the choking fog
of intrigue,
even the unintrigued grabbed their throats
least subversive thoughts escaped them.
Old King Arthur was deliriously inane,
the people pitied him and did not love him,
some said he was an alien lizard being,
some claimed that he was soulless,
or so it seemed,
and yet he was forever babbling
about restoring the soul of the Kingdom.
Corruption grew like a malignant Ivy.
The women of Camelot were constantly angry,
their anger made them fat with a wishful bile.
Many females wanted to be men,
yet strangely enough they hated the menfolk.
The men were fragile and sensitive,
Merlin had cursed them
with the fey magic of 'Low T'.
Trust me, it was a great day
when the kingdom fell
to the massed hordes of disaffected
and disgruntled Goths.
Fresh blood was drunk from royal goblets,
children with wooden swords
chased the pork out of feral gangs
of squealing hogs
until they were as nakedly pink
as plucked chickens.