Long Hamburg Poems
Long Hamburg Poems. Below are the most popular long Hamburg by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hamburg poems by poem length and keyword.
What If There Was No Tomorrow? - The Polar Ice ‘Cap’
- this time it’s burnt and curled upon a new head. The
sweet smoke of his sugarloaf effigy black as night,
surrounded by a material red trim, below Parliament houses
blows political greed into fiery smouldering smithereens –
then it floated and landed after years, drifting, onto
the crown of a man: a business man portraying
wealth and class; here it sat above suit and below sun. The
American dream swirled with scotch and the tip of a bowler,
only for the same piece (restyled of coursed) to later sell for
pounds to make the pupils of any impoverished person pop:
his Hamburg with a knowing dent in back, how it span and
spun from black to grey and back again around Hill’s peak
to be dyed again and tilted just so. Now it’s pillbox pink and a knitted
O of a name/shape-sake that covers her head where her husband
had a target upon his. Watermelon-pink colour dye actually: the very
same fruit palette of brain cradled in her hands at high speed.
This latest star attraction of Burgdorf’s no doubt was, decades
prior, nothing but a mix of lifeless green and sludge brown from
grass and cud - metallic dead daises ducking over No Man’s
Land. A Brodie: styled on a not-yet-pulled pin grenade atop
beads of sparkling sweat, dripping slipping salt where now
a pedal controlled sewing machine stabs and pins sequins into
veils that hide brides with (it must be said) the same success
that protected Fawkes’ Plot or Churchill’s reputation or
Jackie’s husband and the slaughtered soldiers’ skulls - but
still the accessories twist into fascinators fancy enough for
mothers to weep below, only to find the box dish or bow
to be knocked akilter during the traditional bouquet mad
dash - then up – up – up! into the air before landing anew,
refreshed as a Gatsby or Hijab, perhaps a Trilby or Zucchetto;
better yet, the Boater or Sailor we’ll need when the hat that covers
all our heads smoulders and peaks when next dented and melted: a
loose grenade we can’t be veiled from, nor refashioned nor restyled
when the next season’s must have
will be a copper and bolt
protective Diving Mask
for the drowning tomorrow
from The Polar Ice 'Cap'.
Meat Market
They sit on window sills in Hamburg Amsterdam and many beautiful Cities
Legally ‘freed’ they take part in a shady economy of flesh lust and domination
Skimpy dress bare buttocks and bosoms with red light advertising their ‘virtue’
Pimped and pumped out it is business as usual tonight and the punters arrive
Many are most recent imports from Eastern Europe snatched under false promise
Of valuable jobs now bereft of their passports and drugged to dark eye balls
They stand in dark alleys or prowl the streets offering rough rides and adventure
Hand out release for a tenner blow foul members like good sex slaves would do
On the passenger seat they take men to new heights and submit to exploitation
The point of service for entry is all good and if its not the front passage its dearer
Without protection the purse opens wider as the clients take their greedy pick
‘Some goods are beyond the sell by date’ but look now ‘Two for the price of one’
Some of the women and often young girls end up stitched up and dead in a ditch
But who cares they are only whores not pretty enough to be escorts or call girls
A vile supply and demand economy unregulated like neo-liberal infection below
‘The tart enjoys it and she can be proud to get stuffed by the great guy I am’
Modern day serfdom with no power of love but bonded in sick love for power
03rd June 2019
Der Spiegel
In Kashgar, where the Silk Road begins
I bought an apricot and saw a young
Fidel Castro on a bike
The woman who sold the fruit wore
a red shawl over her shiny black hair
knotted under her chin, a yellow silk
silk dress
do you see this man on a bike, I told
to the woman who sold fruit by the road
he is Fidel Castro of Cuba and is a very
famous man except in the USA.
Kashgar is the biggest outdoor market
in the world
Europe is puny, colorless and far away
why was Fidel doing in Kashgar
so far from Cuba.
I tell you, he is looking for a tobacco dealer
to supply him with Havana Cigars
Langley is too close to Cuba
A longer Silk Road is being built
with pipelines and trains to Hamburg
famous market of whores selling flesh
from dimmed rosy lit rooms.
If you want to buy a peach, you have to go
to Kandahar, or make a movie.
The man on the bike was a secular pope
his enemy tried to murder him for sixty years.
At the Gates of Auschwitz
Today, I stand
At the gates of hell;
“Arbeit macht frei”
("Work sets you free!")—
That is Auschwitz.
Where they burned God’s children
And the world stood by,
Oblivious
To what was happening inside.
The League of Nations
(Whose mandate was world peace)
Failed!
And in 1942,
The trains rolled into Auschwitz
Carrying God’s children,
Who were packed like cattle into boxcars
(Cold, diseased, inhumanely treated),
Ready for slaughter.
Insane hatred condemned them,
As in the past,
For events through no fault of theirs
Because they were Jewish.
Take, for example,
That ocean liner in 1939,
The MS St. Louis,
Carrying Jews to Cuba.
A scheme of the Nazis
To prove Jews were pariahs,
Whom nobody would welcome,
Nor would anyone want.
Cuba denied the ship safe harbour;
The U.S.A. turned it away,
And likewise, so did Canada,
And the three systemically decreed,
“It’s not our problem!”
Germany did have a solution:
Ethnic cleansing
In the ovens of Auschwitz.
And the world looked the other way.
The world did not care!
Later, when the horror was exposed,
The free world would apologize, officially.
“If we do not remember the past,
We are doomed to repeat it.”
At the Dachau concentration camp,
On the memorial to the Holocaust,
It is written,
“Never Again!”
***
Note:
On May 13, 1939, the M.S. St. Louis departed Hamburg, Germany, bound for Havana, Cuba, with approximately nine hundred and one Jewish refugees aboard, to escape from Nazi persecution. Only twenty-eight passengers were allowed to disembark.
The ship then sailed to the United States of America, where it was refused safe entry, and then to Canada, and was also refused safe entry. The ship returned to Antwerp, Belgium, and the passengers were granted refugee status in a number of European countries.
The trenches are dug,
We gotta go, guys,
Defend our country,
On the other side of the Rhine,
They don’t speak French,
On the other side of the Rhine,
They don’t speak German,
Sprechen Sie Deutsch ?
We gotta go, guys,
To die for a wheat field,
die for a mill,
To die for his children,
We gotta go, guys,
On the other side of the Rhine,
They don’t speak French,
On the other side of the Rhine,
They don’t speak German,
We gotta go, guys,
I could have been born in Saarbrücken,
I could have been born in Neuilly,
What a difference in the bottom,
We gotta kill each other, guys
Like hungry wolves,
Like bloody beasts,
Where’s the humanity, guys?
She’s in our houses,
On the banks of the Seine,
Under the sun of Arles,
It is in the port of Hamburg,
Nobody talks about it,
Humanity is the peace,
Peace is back, guys,
The peace of November 11.
Les tranchées sont creusées,
Il faut y aller les gars,
Défendre notre pays,
De l’autre côté du Rhin,
Ils ne parlent pas français,
De l’autre côté du Rhin,
Ils ne parlent pas allemand,
Il faut y aller les gars,
Mourir pour un champ de blé,
mourir pour un moulin,
Mourir pour ses enfants,
Il faut y aller les gars,
De l’autre côté du Rhin,
Ils ne parlent pas français,
De l’autre côté du Rhin,
Ils ne parlent pas allemand,
Il faut y aller les gars,
J’aurais pu naitre à Sarrebruck,
J’aurais pu naitre à Neuilly,
Quelle différence au fond,
Il faut s’entretuer les gars
Comme des loups affamés,
Comme des bêtes sanglantes,
Où est l’humanité les gars ?
Elle est dans nos maisons,
Sur le bord de la Seine,
Sous le soleil d’Arles,
Elle est dans le port de Hambourg,
Personne n’en parle,
L’Humanité c’est la paix,
La paix retrouvée, les gars,
La paix du onze novembre.
Der Spiegel
In Kashgar, where the Silk Road begins
I bought an apricot and saw a young
Fidel Castro on a bike
The woman who sold the fruit wore
a red shawl over her shiny black hair
knotted under her chin, a yellow silk
silk dress
do you see this man on a bike, I told
to the woman who sold fruit by the road
he is Fidel Castro of Cuba and is a very
famous man except in the USA.
Kashgar is the biggest outdoor market
in the world
Europe is puny, colorless and far away
why was Fidel doing in Kashgar
so far from Cuba.
I tell you, he is looking for a tobacco dealer
to supply him with Havana Cigars
Langley is too close to Cuba
A longer Silk Road is being built
with pipelines and trains to Hamburg
famous market of whores selling flesh
from dimmed rosy lit rooms.
If you want to buy a peach, you have to go
to Kandahar, or make a movie.
The man on the bike was a secular pope
his enemy tried to murder him for sixty years.
My fortunes drop from my hands with despair.
Pearls that plop on the sand are the rest of me that's left to bare.
Juggling gorillas and dinosaur tea parties swirl in discordant dance,
While my aimless mind presses spring in Hamburg 'gainst a wintry France.
All lives re-awake each morning with a choice to laugh or cry,
Since there is no door for the key you hold, no pan for the egg to fry.
So with oatmeal in your hands you run from house to house,
"Is this sad or is this funny?" You add you use to be a mouse.
And when even the flag of writing is held against a vacant wind
You meet metal with wood and not as wood and your heart you feel has sinned,
For not to laugh at the madness of sternness is to lose our only magic power.
To fall from branches that were never there is to star in the saddest movie of the hour.
Grieve not if your gift seems little now where once you shot rockets.
Remember: you were once a mouse, and now your have oatmeal in your pockets.
No Tigers At Home In Africa
Walking my tiger home alone I’m sure walking at last
home from home and beyond when I travel too fast
In Istanbul Hamburg St. Davids I gather my themes
full of life love creatures and poetry that redeems
Wild cats pussyfooting around mosques rivers’ cave
roaring of passion lightening loads that others enslave
Museums parks costal paths wild sun-blessed beaches
lagoons mountains orchards and metaphorical peaches
I make up the tiger in my mind as I go along persevere
sabre teeth drooling whiskers to magical eyes I adhere
With no leash and no collar no prescriptions restraints
I enter a world that matters swishes swirls and paints
Imagination mystical fantasy dreams aspirations and hope
all live in my tiger prism escape and have unlimited scope
I condense and reflect diverge ramble think and I feel
whether I walk the tiger or the lion is no real big deal
I contest the notion that reality exists has only one truth
form constraint rules regulation dogma I distract from to sooth
There fore in my writing life verse and poetry ends unshackled
by resting my tiger lion meter and rhyme freed but not tackled
04th August 2016
Hey, sir!
Why did you stop and look awhile?
Amazed by flurry fleeting fog,
or seeking sacrosanct solace
behind the calming chiaroscuro
of boundless beguiling beauty
in front of you?
Hey, sir!
Will you look back at me awhile,
and gaze upon my eyes?
I wonder if ...
a mysterious monarchial mind
I see from your back
is depicted in the way you look at me;
I want to know.
Hey, sir!
It seems you got miles to go;
Will you stop and hang awhile
to have a drink for two?
Hurry not...
And we both will ponder
on the misty haven
before the night is through.
Notes:Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, or Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer, to give it it's original German title, is the most famous painting from the career of German Romanticist painter, Caspar David Friedrich. It was finished in 1818 and now resides at the Kunsthalle Hamburg in Hamburg, Germany.
Photo and info credits to: thehistoryofart.org
10 August 2022
'A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE' Poetry Contest
1st place
We study our language when we are just born.
First, we touch and hear, taste and smell, and then we see.
We put a name on it. And we repeat it back by sound, motion, and symbols.
Some words we cannot really translate, like the words in the greeting "Hummel, Hummel; Mors, Mors." The people of Hamburg, Germany might be able to explain it, but it would be difficult. In short, "mors" generally means in English "kiss my butt."
But what if it was more profound, take philosophy and theology? Not many in the "west" understand Hinduism. There are words like "zen" and the teachings of Kabir, that describes ideas foreign to the "west."
Unless we look beyond our language, we will be prisoners to it.
by,
Martin Braun
3/17/2020