Long Huntress Poems
Long Huntress Poems. Below are the most popular long Huntress by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Huntress poems by poem length and keyword.
Shedang, huntress of the forest, it is said that her arrows are true.
A protector of deer, squirrels, and other wildlife; her quiver will do.
Is she an entity or someone created by the wildlife of the trees?
I wonder as I walk through the forest, accompanied by a soft breeze.
Is it true she can leap from branch to branch, from elm to oak?
I have heard so much about her from the Germanic folk.
She maims the hunters, rarely kills them, the storytellers say.
I have heard this story since I was a child from those who were gray.
She is bewitched, some say. She can hear you coming from the lake.
I listened to these stories, and my knees began to jive and quake.
She sounded dangerous to me, it made me want to never hunt.
My grandpa kept inviting me, but I got a ball and asked him to punt.
Watch out for Shedang, they warned, don’t even step on the ‘shrooms.
She could easily fly out of a tree, and get you with arrows that zoom.
I saw her sitting way up high in a maple polishing arrows last spring.
Averted my eyes, and went back down the trail, without hurting a thing.
No time for trivialities that hinders my good will
The hunted now the huntress aiming for the kill,
Though, I was diverted that paused my prime pursuit
Now, I've caught clearer thought and arts I'll execute.
And if they dare to put me down for jealousy a norm
I'll sharpen my defences and they I'll out perform,
As labours toll from work of goal will not be ill sordid
Where triumph and victory unifies rewarded.
No time to idle in this life where miracles occur
Duties turn to beauties when aspirations stir,
Climbing ancient mountains where rocky tracks are rough
Only makes one stronger to go beyond, and tough.
With experience I will win evermore with fairness
Changes were embraced to enhance awareness
Important work to engage for deliverance of mine
Whilst any less you may guess I shall not have time.
In the biblical Egyptian pitch-black of my bedroom
I take 40mg of melatonin and proceed to talk to the ceiling with hand gestures, for considerable time
The only evidence remains my leaden morning limbs,
(Vestige measured in a remembrance of the flesh)
the classic somatic cipher of the forgotten ‘night before’
arms that don’t bend right, bone-deep weariness signifying some sort of unbeknownst movement, silent attempts
The only evidence remains Friction with the atmosphere,
a sort of ‘woosh’ of the air slap
And I talk and talk to God, who hears my ‘wooshes’ like tackles and throws in a match,
judge among spectators
As he weighs down on my limbs and guides the winds every which way
So that friction is surrounding instead of guiding
Fervently yet stumbling, I ramble corporeally about having no wants
But the ability to desire
Red eyes, forcefully widened, held open by speculums
Last night I was sleep’s huntress
Chasing after my sustenance, threateningly following for sweet relief
Last day, sputtering engine out of fuel
Tonight I am sleep’s prey
My body, my enemy, bent on survival
pumping me full of adrenaline against my consent
The prey awaits in rest,
unless Enlightened
Huntress
by Michael R. Burch
after Baudelaire
Lynx-eyed, cat-like and cruel, you creep
across a crevice dropping deep
into a dark and doomed domain.
Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane.
Rain falls upon your path, and pain
pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause
and heed the oft-lamented laws
which bid you not begin again
till night returns. You wail like wind,
the sighing of a soul for sin,
and give up hunting for a heart.
Till sunset falls again, depart,
though hate and hunger urge you?"On!"
Heed, hearts, your hope?the break of dawn.
Invitation to the Voyage
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My child, my sister,
Consider the rapture
Of living together!
To love at our leisure
Till the end of all pleasure,
Then in climes so alike you, to die!
The misty sunlight
Of these hazy skies
Charms my spirit:
So mysterious
Your treacherous eyes,
Shining through tears.
There, order and restraint redress
Opulence, voluptuousness.
Gleaming furniture
Burnished by the years
Would decorate our bedroom
Where the rarest flowers
Mingle their fragrances
With vague scents of amber.
The sumptuous ceilings,
The limpid mirrors,
The Oriental ornaments …
Everything would speak
To our secretive souls
In their own indigenous language.
There, order and restraint redress
Opulence, voluptuousness.
See, rocking on these channels:
The sleepy vessels
Whose vagabond dream
Is to satisfy
Your merest desire.
They come from the ends of the world:
These radiant suns
Illuminating fields,
Canals, the entire city,
In hyacinth and gold.
The world falls asleep
In their warming light.
There, order and restraint redress
Opulence, voluptuousness.
Originally published by Sonnetto Poesia
NOTE: This poem is about the way primal lust for sex can turn human beings into animals who toy with their prey, like cats with mice. It is not about any person in particular.
Sargent’s Madame X is not just a socialite,
she is rather the embodiment of French aristocracy.
Pale as moonlight,
poised, brimming with dignity;
her crown is an ode to the huntress.
And yet, her dark and dangerously low-cut dress,
the accentuated curves
sing of a sweet and suggestive mystery.
She is at once formidable and submissive,
the tempest and tranquility.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 24/08/17
Based on The Portrait of Madame X by John Singer Sargent.
http://images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages/ap/original/DT91.jpg
There it is
The old kettle
Whispering on the hearth
In the winter it speaks to me
Of nights out on the moor
And as the wind
It whistles down the chimney
From above
I see the flames
Are whipped upon
Like Jesus carrying the cross
I’ll tell you the story though
I don’t know how it will end
There was a woman I married once
At least I think that’s how we met
She came to me in flowing clothes
As green as the grass she strode
I barely dared to look at her face
As she drew me ever on
And led me to the river
Across a wide meadow
Her presence seemed so odd to me
I began to shiver cold
As I stepped upon the river stones
The water stilled my soul
But then as she took off her linen robe
I began to burn up
I devote this dream to pallid nightfall!
The incredible lady said
And then she turned into a pale white horse
As real as you are there
A grey-white river mare she was
She led me deeper in
Her neck was strong
Her mane was proud
Some kind of wondrous change-ling
I tried to question it all myself
But powerless, up to my knees
I was aware of what was going on
But unable to plead
A woman again she turned to me
And loudly proclaimed
I seemed to have warmed you up, she said
I’d better cool you down
Tell me, am I a huntress?
Am I the one who had the first vision?
Why are we here in this infinite now
Stuck in this wandering prism?
The pouring out of a life
Can be so heartless, so cruel
And that is why I come to you now
To help soften the truth.
Ancient Greek and Roman Epigrams I
Wall, we're astonished that you haven't collapsed,
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
Ancient Roman graffiti, translation by Michael R. Burch
You begrudge men your virginity?
Why? To what purpose?
You will find no one to embrace you in the grave.
The joys of love are for the living.
But in Acheron, dear virgin,
we shall all lie dust and ashes.
—Asclepiades of Samos, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me live with joy today, since tomorrow is unforeseeable.
?Michael R Burch, after Palladas of Alexandria
Now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the night:
his owner’s faithful Maltese...
but will he still bark again, on sight?
?Michael R Burch, after Tymnes
Poor partridge, poor partridge, lately migrated from the rocks;
our cat bit off your unlucky head; my offended heart still balks!
I put you back together again and buried you, so unsightly!
May the dark earth cover you heavily: heavily, not lightly...
so she shan’t get at you again!
?Michael R Burch, after Agathias
Hunter partridge,
we no longer hear your echoing cry
along the forest's dappled feeding ground
where, in times gone by,
you would decoy speckled kinsfolk to their doom,
luring them on,
for now you too have gone
down the dark path to Acheron.
?Michael R Burch, after Simmias
Wert thou, O Artemis,
overbusy with thy beast-slaying hounds
when the Beast embraced me?
?Michael R Burch, after Diodorus of Sardis
Dead as you are, though you lie as
still as cold stone, huntress Lycas,
my great Thessalonian hound,
the wild beasts still fear your white bones;
craggy Pelion remembers your valor,
splendid Ossa, the way you would bound
and bay at the moon for its whiteness
as below we heard valleys resound.
And how brightly with joy you would leap and run
the strange lonely peaks of high Cithaeron!
?Michael R Burch, after Simonides
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Greek, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, epitaphs, translations, elegy, elegies, eulogy, eulogies, death, grave, funeral, lament, mourning, loss, pain, bereavement
In nightshade she rages in fumes
And drives me to the edge of unrest
Inside coal eyes, my breath exhumed
Granting her to stew, I feel pressed.
Dark tresses of fire keeps burning
A passion that ignites a whirl...
This vixen’s scold reeks like a sting
But truth of her words were sincere.
Enticed, I drink the spiced potion
That bathes deep down inside of me;
Possessing a huntress’ grit, she drones
As my pride she melts, heavenly.
My woman is both river and sleet
Her quarter moon flushed with grace;
Eclipsing my will, my defeat
To accept a female's bold ways!
Dr. Ram Mehta's Husbands Are In Heaven.. Contest
by nette onclaud
My wife, my huntress, rides the Holy Wind,
But still, daisies adorn her thick brown hair!
Her muslin robes blow out, her hair's unpinned,
Let dark thoughts try to chase her, if they dare!
For she outrides them all, strews flowers like hopes
And, with her hunting-dogs, argent, and gold,
She frees all prisoners, breaks all hangmen's ropes
A sure shot from her bow, and - young and old,
The wretched find their freedom come at last!
The hopeless rise and throw off fear's dull chains,
The blinded see the Now, Future, and Past
The horses lead their riders without reins!
Now, through the Night, she bolts like lightning's fire!
A fiery seraphim, who'll never tire!
"A Whiskers Tale: Watching the Detectives"
Her whiskers tickle
when the lights go out
hormonal huntress
on the prowl
Moonlight chasing
itsy bitsies
up the wall
a silent investigator
tap dancing silently
soft as mink and sibilant
paws poised
across a different kind of
polished slippery dance floor
criminally inclined
researching minds
a baby in her
isolation crib
for sure
soft-shoe shuffling
never bored.
(LadyLabyrith / 2021)
"Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit."
"Watching the Detectives" / Elvis Costello
https://youtu.be/xO_sDtI2bYk
"Everyday I Write the Book"
https://youtu.be/ekrzLtCKMJg
" I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:
The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs..."
Inspiration: "MoonLight"
"Pursuit"/Sylvia Plath
https://neuroticpoets.com/plath/poem/pursuit/