Long Heroine Poems
Long Heroine Poems. Below are the most popular long Heroine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heroine poems by poem length and keyword.
and then there was nothing …
a distant echo of vacant abnegation
of purpose meaning delusion
yet a sense of unease flooded
nonchalant meditation
a void with no abyss
refused to make way to Nirvana
sandalwood marched like an Army of thoughts
burnt the loin cloth uncovered nudity beyond
imagination when the deluge breathed in flickers
blistered Nirvana scorched emotions and reason
as the heroine neared the apocalypse
her skin glowed in the dark
the sparkle set the fig tree on fire
infused the begging bowl with fragrance
of attention to the Here and Now
engulfed by her own flames
she flashed smouldered remains
revoked her precocious funeral pyre
tied frivolous misconceptions to the stake
if I really wanted to be nothing
I would hide in my womb …
21st April 2021
Here’s a story about a little boy who, when he was just a lad
was blessed to have the good fortune to be adopted by two dads.
He was malnourished…this little boy…his bedroom was a drawer…
The two dads like to think his parents loved him…but they loved their heroine more.
Many a heterosexual couple was asked to help…
but having reservations and these appeals were dismissed….
so they turned to these two men…a couple…who were happy to assist.
They weren’t looking for a child…but…understanding what it’s like to be ostracized
whatever plans in life they had…they immediately revised.
They ended up adopting their son…to the task at hand they were undaunted…
Since then they’ve adopted two more children who were abandoned…or unwanted.
It’s been 26 years since they adopted their son…since the stars in their life aligned…
The children who changed their life are all grown up now…grown up and doing fine.
Proof that good parents will be good parents…and bad parents will be bad…
and how a family can thrive as a family with the love and compassion of two dads.
These children changed their two dads lives…forever…
changed it in mid-stream…
In return these two dads gave their three children…
a chance…
to live…
and dream.
________________
The nayika (heroine) sets out
to meet her beloved against all odds
___________________
Dreams in mind, hope in heart,
On the way am I to meet my sweetheart,
My mind in turmoil, tumult of passion
Seeking fruition, to end long separation,
None can stop whose mind’s made,
Of no one and none whoso afraid,
My heart feels free from all masked plight,
Naught can stop me from meeting him tonight,
And embrace him despite it all,
Notso can my made-up-mind stall,
Abhisarika I’m, let all world know,
No Vyabhicharika, on wayward go.
____________________
Natya Shastra | 02.02.2025 | Free verse,
Note: This is second of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Abhisarika is the second of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form. Vyabhichar refers to adultery, extramarital sex, infidelity, or betrayal in marriage.
It’s an amazing situation.
Came right out of the blue.
I had to pinch my arm to
Convince myself it’s true.
They want to film my novel,
Offered an amazing price,
No more nine to five drudgery
Which sounded so very nice.
Of course they’ve changed the
Location from Neasden to Japan
And my middle aged heroine has
Become a muscular action man.
It’s no longer a tale of
Strained domestic bliss
Now more a pot boiler about
International financial crisis.
They’re certainly wanting changes
To my more pedestrian plot,
And heaven only knows
How many characters get shot.
I gasped in amazement at
The suggested A list cast
Being a struggling new author
Certainly a thing of the past.
Yes they wanted to film my novel
But I’ve turned them down flat:
Rather nine to five drudgery than
Association with rubbish like that.
Goodbye dreams of riches
And back to the old rat race
But at least I’ll still be able
To look myself in the face.
My given name is of no consequence.
You can call me Spider Girl.
It’s an appropriate name, I think.
I’m indistinguishable in many ways
from billions of other creatures just like me.
(Character building experiences
tend to breed cartoons.)
I might appear pretty easy to step on
but don't underestimate resourcefulness
and long legs.
Anyway, I’m going to do my
darnedest to weave something
worthy of your attention
or whatever you will end up spending
to buy this comic book
because I’ve got a daughter to raise
and let’s face it: long legs alone
ain’t gonna pay the bills.
My enemies vary:
Thugs who crow too loudly,
evil geniuses (they tend to keep mum),
crime bosses,
even monsters who are out of this world.
I share a universe with heroes, too,
some I used to run with –
although “with” sort of works as
an elaboration of the truth.
A prevarication.
A provocation.
One should not provoke me.
I don’t quite know what I’m capable of yet.
Mommies of all species will kill for their young.
I’ve heard it’s instinctual –
but, what if that’s just an excuse to
step over the line,
take a seat,
cross one’s legs,
look tough,
and watch someone else suffer?
It’s that violence
the drug I crave…
Are you frightened of me yet?
Good.
Maybe you should be.
I am me.
I am not what you perceived.
But
I am me
An African princess.
I am not a slave.
But
I am me.
A daughter of a king.
I am not a victim.
But
I am me.
A victorious survivor.
I don’t fear betrayers.
But
I am me.
A brave heroine.
I don’t listen to haters.
But
I am me.
I am a powerful human being
Blemishes
My body’s mistakes
My wounds of disgrace
Injected by faith
In science and progress
Flogging myself with second-guesses
I have given myself away.
to uncaring men, pressed jackets
white jackets, packets of sympathy
baskets of fruit set upon the writing desk
in solitary confinement, padded walls.
haunted halls, bathroom stalls with locked doors.
Linoleum floors
Poor, poor pitiful me
Cherry pick my favourite reasons,
depending on the season
Why do the patterns keep repeating?
serve them up on a platter!
for delicate devouring
and just desserts
some things are generational.
inherited
bestowed
I cradle my worth.
In my own wretched hands
Once delicate
Here I stand.
Not stolid
Nor stoic
I am not put together.
Not sorted
I am apart.
Electrical currents running through the pieces,
stringing them together
Making a woman out of angst and energy
The sheer will of being.
I have nothing to live for
Only these words
Hospital gown flowing in my rage.
Windswept, like a mage
In the middle of casting a spell
A sorceress in distress, in peril
Fighting to remain
In the moment, present and tame
But wild fear presents itself at my feet.
The wolf is ready to eat.
I stay indoors to hide from the chase.
But at the end of the day
When night falls to the ground
I heard the call.
I wish to respond.
To howl back at the crack of dawn
Rolling in the sun with my wild baying, panting, praying
But I stay put.
I hold it back.
Inside my skin that cannot contain
My ancestral blood
This is the flood.
The flood
I drowned in the flood.
The wolf is not only animal.
But avatar
for gods too abstract to see
with the naked eye
It growls it snarls.
It bites my legs.
It promises peace.
as it gnaws on my pride
the alure of freedom,
teasing me to leave my comfort zones
knowing it will crunch my bones.
the first chance it gets.
when I trip over my intentions
into mud
face first
ruining my escape
I do not outrun the wolf.
I do not outsmart the gods.
I do not escape the flood.
I fall—
not like a heroine,
but like a relic dropped mid-ritual
mud in my mouth,
bones in the wolf’s grin
the spell unfinished
The door still locked.
the howl still inside me
rotting sweetly
like fruit on the desk
Black and white movies,
old even when I watched them
flicker still on an inner retina.
A hero turns conspiratorially,
staring into my future;
what he said into the camera then,
is silent now
but I see his lips move
as if he were predicting this moment.
A heroine hikes her skirt over her thighs;
blood fills the flesh of memory,
a dialogue recalled by younger nerve-endings.
I remember I love her, but it is too late,
she is dead and she did not die young,
her ancient hand seems to
grasp my fingers now,
seeking closure.
King Kong lives a broken life in my hall closet.
At night I hear him weeping still
for that little platinum haired women.
He is no longer tortured, angry,
and confused,
but he forgets stuff,
Nightly I still have to explain to him
that the sound of buzzing biplanes
is only the air-conditioner kicking in.
Eventually we both slip into sleep.
Seated in a cell of this prison world
I watched the night sky
Through a window,
A tiny one
Sealed tight by metal bars
Seeming to tell me
That mightier they surely are
Mightier than me
Mightier than everything else!
The night sky is where freedom lies
The night sky is where freedom loves
Itself,
Or other sorts of creation
All like me
Floating in glass cylinders
Filled up with chemical compositions
Meant to sustain me with enough energy
As to allow me to stay alive
Yet, wanting me not to be strong enough
As to break free!
Seated in my prison cell,
I saw,
A shooting star
As it raced in the night sky
Going there where its own fate willed it
Going there where I shall never go
Even if I yearn for it
With the might of a broken poet!
If only,
I could be one too
I'd feel so free, so light, so burden-less
I'd soar wherever I would have wanted
Feeling like I am a mighty heroine of a video game!
But I have no means to be that which I seek
I can only sit in my prison cell
And watch the night sky
And dream while being conscious and awake!
For Contest Shooting Stars
Sponsored by: Nayda Ivette Negron
Written on 13 August 2019
What am I ....and Who!?
that this eternal flame will not go out...and stay OUT!?
the unadulterated everlasting blaze
flows from these
my poetic finger tips
in spirons of orange and red and blue ...flames of you
this river of our conflagration
scars the OUR
runs down my tresses
charts pathways ...forms canyons
incinerates and shapes
torches and carves...the psychic ALL walls
Canyons....of mercury and steely mir
a heroine, a hero ...and hell
why ??
Yesterday...was so innocent and so was I
if not for resting a palm upon a chair
...a club stool in a little dark historic bar filled with small white lights and sweetest memories
...psychedelic indeed... a blood scent!
I rested my hand only for a moment...but hearing your angry words
of loss...as you turned on me
the river broke free of the damn
and the door mat in the hall where you first stood
started laughing
I should have known there were toxic remembrances lurking on surfaces there
the sticky atoms of recall ...I should have stayed away!
purest tears sprung instantly unbidden
and deepest sadness dressed me in blue
swept away by atomites
and dripping with this immortal rainbow
I am falling fall ing
staining
the page of the universe
but for just another day