Long Inauspicious Poems
Long Inauspicious Poems. Below are the most popular long Inauspicious by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inauspicious poems by poem length and keyword.
I
As things do return home like a refrain,
On way back from a country tour were we,
A leisurely long trip—my kin and me,
And met a quaint character on the train,
As I recall, in his late life, nigh vain,
His dress and demeanour indicative,
And we at sea the way he seemed to talk,
His deportment and dialogue of proud cock,
Who discoursed on any a theme on earth,
A Muslim sure from far, not a native,
Listening to him was, not his tale’s worth,
Yea, something sure was there that was not sane.
The Goddess of Learning and Destiny
Seemed to have blessed him— of ports so many,
Who said, forces were at work in the world
Far too secretly, underground, unheard:
Russians, say, have advanced closer to us,
Brit policies have been inauspicious,
Feuds among our leaders have come to head,
Confused and suspicious who see things red.
And flourished our newly formed friend in train
With phony smile: What might cause further pain—
More things happen under and ‘pon this earth
Than reported are as the news of worth.
The home-bound birds like us that had not seen
The world he had, struck were dumb with wonder,
What with his quotes on science, his comments
On Vedas, verses of Persian poets.
Our young ears, untutored to this knowledge,
Caused our admiring bone to turn attuned,
Sure, a magnet, occult power, an astral
Body some sort doubtless has him inspired,
We listened to him with keenest of ears,
Devout mind, he’d our heart all enraptured.
The train reaching a railhead, we waited
In a retiring room, tired and jaded,
As change of train weighed when heavy on eyes.
‘Train's running late', when someone made us wise,
Our wise man then set out a tale to spin,
And our sleep said goodbye with a wry grin!
____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
Written: October 1st 2023
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the ocean of silence, I’m stunned
Astonish by its grandeur as I descend.
A comely curtain of conciliatory calm
Elapse the chaos, surreptitious and warm.
In the hushed embrace of the twilight sky,
A silence plummets, ambrosial all nearby.
Astonied hearts stand in solicitous awe.
A comely night implies her ethereal flaw.
Emollient whispers waft into the air.
Surreptitious secrets are shared with care.
Incipient stars start their gentle wafture,
Surreal leaves create a ripple in nature.
Mellifluous melodies mend meteoric might,
Fugacious flimsies that fizzle out of a fight
Gossamer moonbeams cast their diaphanous glow,
Creating an aura of silence, tranquility, and bestow.
Ineffable fairness, fiercely feisty, not frigid,
The break of dawn silenced, as if timid.
Saturnine secrets shrank in secrecy.
Stupendous silence slides, sinewy spree.
Lull launders, looping the limp land,
As warblers start with a duteous band,
Sullen clouds gather, ominous and dark.
Yet awestruck hearts find solace in calm remarks.
Reassuringly, the heavy silence lingers.
Dour faces are glum, yet prudent fingers
Guide the oxymoron of emotions that flow,
Glowering and divine in their quiet glow
In the gloomy hush, discretion gleans hold,
As discerning minds decry peace in the fold,
The prudent ones, with a discreet glance,
Understand the power of silence dance.
Glum faces settle in quiet repose.
Views deepen, and worries dispose
Astounded by stillness, they are in awe.
Of absolute peace that stillness can draw.
Awestricken by the amorphous depth it brings,
They decry solace in the lull that silence sings.
A curtain of calm tumbles, amazed and serene.
As the amorphous depth of quiet is felt and seen.
Inauspicious cruxes balmily soothe fears.
As diaphanous whispers softly, quell tears.
Hinky hearts hearkens a hypothesis behind,
A voice uttered, "Love silence will never hide".
No query or qualm can squeal this bond.
Silence is where my peace is dulcet fond.
In the hushed embrace of the twilight sky,
Silence reigns, and my love will never die.
Languor of the mind
I. My, my, My how times flies.
Another year has transpired.
Yet, a City has not been revitalized to the image once defined.
The crime rate has escalated since 1999.
Plus, the minds of the people negate refinement.
Do you hear what I hear?
A City is dying in iniquity.
Do you see what I see?
A City in shackles as mentally incarcerated human beings.
An Inauspicious approach
II. I went to sleep on the couch.
When I woke up, I ask what time is it now.
It is the sleep I was in that contradicted the housework.
Where did all this paper come from on my bedroom floor?
Do you know the score?
Is this done by someone I know?
III. A penitent to view
They stood behind bars looking out.
They house was situated at the end of the block.
The sirens were blasting as loud as blow horns.
They laugh to themselves for this was a warning of life forthcoming.
Do you see what I see?
A City in shackles as mentally incarcerated human beings.
Do you hear what I hear?
A City is dying in iniquity.
Ensued precedent
IV. When I came in 1997, the City was in a hidden culture of turmoil.
Unpromising and ill-starred was the faces I saw in the crowd.
The laughter was twigged to their high-quality of life.
But oh, the City needed revitalizing.
The unemployment rate was at a national high.
The dilapidated housing condition was a true ghetto now.
Black bottom shined in that we had left that period of time.
Do you see what I see?
Destiny undefined.
Do you hear what I hear?
Humanity laughter lachrymose without a focal point for future growth.
Do you know the score?
Iniquity and transgression are entrenched.
Is this done by someone I know?
The miens are seen as a desolated City in a manifold.
________________________________________________________________|
Written on December 27, 2015!
This poet decided against
becoming a measly minced meaty morsel
undetected inauspicious augury
assigning adept
aqueous ace AOL amphibian,
who surreptitiously crept
to the secret crypt (guarded by
foo fighters and amazing dragons)
said gendarmes did except
special fluid scrip as egress into
heavily fortified
(with USDA recommended allowance),
thus when the configurative motley crue
including thyself (a bono fied doo
bee brother - long given up for lost,
which "FAKE" oracle
misinterpreted by a goo goo
doll, and cross dresser named Hugh
played being took a vow el,
and hence consonantly knew
all along, i dwelt peacefully
in a soundcloud loo
immensely spacious with ooh
dills of survival trappings
purchased from Peru
laborers treated by free pact
guaranteeing a socially
conscious shopper to rue
painstaking indigenous stoop labor,
now stamped imprimatur could allow,
enable and provide means to shoe
each formerly eczema dappled,
cracked bare foot
ah, a glimmer of hopefulness
(upon this crowded house of a planet) view
which youtube snapchat ting
reddit as joyous outlook
sans linkedin shutterfly,
twitter ring tender flickr ring shoots
communicated an instagram message
of hopefulness kickstarting optimism
versus the initial thread of this poem,
which to set this got off track
(hinting at goal to be
a paperback book writer wannabe)
rather than ending up as a byte size snack
for a limbering beast, into whose tumblr
of one jagged razor sharp teeth
like daggers lined up along a rack
of reinforced steel maw,
which bang for the bite did pack
leaves no room for bing a survivor
as fierce jaws clamp down
worse than getting steam rolled by a mack
truck, but subjected to thee yield,
whence thousands of pounds
per square inch of pressure
on par lambasted from Donald Trump flack.
In this beautiful place of worship, the pews are padded but uncomfortable, the sanctuary large, candle lit and cold.
There's a huge glass dome and I can see the stars. Are the stars our fiery heaven??
No, I don't think the stars care about us - they don't burn with affection or passion. And if the stars weren't there we could live with an empty sky.
The Greeks would call our star, the Sun, to perform their acts of God. I imagine most of their prayers went unanswered - not unlike our own??
To me, the whole Jesus story is somewhat sinister and inauspicious, but if Jesus, the son of God, and that whole story were the deepest, truest reality - then why hasn't Jesus returned??
**Imagining heaven's father and son dialog**
God: "Ok, Jesus, time to go back.."
Jesus: "Go back... go back?? Daaaaad... Did you see what they DID to me? Nailed me to a cross! Screw them, there's no way I'm going back. Why don’t you try going back, as an ordinary man - maybe they’ll set you on fire.”
These 20 millennium old bible stories aren't exactly Euclid's logical system.... I mean, the various books aren't even *consistent*. Are these really, I mean really our beliefs? Or are they just kind of *traditions* and good rules to live by?
My parents - unlikely pilgrims of the intoxicating poetry of belief - face front and appear to be listening... in all other things they're so *skeptical* - it's a puzzle.
If Jesus did come back, wouldn't he practically be a caveman surrounded by bewildering technology?
I'm sorry, there's something too rich in creation for these rehearsed responses and fairy-tale fragments from a primitive world to be the answer.
Now I'm not saying there is no God or no life after death.. I.. just..
*hopeless shrug*
So, anyway - I go through the motions, I chant the litanies with the enthusiasm of obedience; just storing up my spiritual loot and hiding my questioning, heathen heart.
Happy Easter Everyone!
A poem - Crimsons are not for me
Crimsons are not for me
Celluloid screen flashed for reference
Pinks would be fine’-
bargained my voice so meek
Crimsons are not for me
Be a pioneer, be a scion -
inspirational women on pages caught my fancy
But soon work caught my attention-
squares in a form asked for my status
word ‘widow’ fitted in to tee
I avoided the word and wanted to flee
Crimsons are not for me
My inner voice knocked at me
I drew a circle around the new found status
and kept it safe and reserved
Tears veiled the white of my eyes-
the eyes which could see the crimsons and pinks
Crimsons are not for me
Tears washed away a little part of the circle,
I stepped out of it and away from it-
and a new normal embraced me
I often return to the reserved circle-
think I am privileged to grieve
but then I look at the crimson azure and leave
In India widows wear white color as a mark of losing her husband .Though white light is a combination of seven colors, this color is considered inauspicious. The word ‘widow’ has acquired negative connotations over the years. It is grim and spells a lackluster life. Don’t you think, it is a high time this term was replaced , just like visually impaired for blind or stroke survivor for stroke victim?
Losing you partner is always unthinkable. It is a shattering experience and unfortunately some of our references are movies which make it even worse. Just because two individuals have lost their partner ,does not put them under the same umbrella. We all are very different with unique circumstances, so the way to cope with the loss is also different. However, even more unique is the way we figure out the new normal. White is a serene color, which is composed of seven colors and it has a special place for crimson as well. Life has all shades and we definitely are engineered to embrace it all!
The year was sixteen-sixty-four
A comet crossed the sky,
And Londoners looked on in fear
Convinced the end was nigh.
The streets which once were paved with gold
Were now awash with waste.
A swarm of flies and scourge of rats
Foretold the death they faced.
And so it was that London town
Was struck down by the plague,
And corpse on corpse, wife, husband,child,
Were taken to their grave.
Deep in the dales of Derbyshire
A peaceful village lay,
Until a bale of cloth arrived
That inauspicious day.
A bale of flea-infested cloth
Hung by the hearth to dry,
Which stirred the soporific fleas
And roused the plague thereby.
The tailor's poor assistant died
A death of searing pain,
And pestilence intensified
Its unrelenting reign.
As many planned to leave their homes
The vicar intervened
Declaring that instead of flight
They should be quarantined.
'Dear flock of Eyam, sacrifice
Not self must be our plan,
For once enclosed we'll suffer but
Set free our fellow man.'
Within the space of just one month
So many perished there.
The smell of sadness and of death
Ingrained the putrid air.
The years have passed,the plague long gone
But graves still tell the tale
Of how their sacrifice and strength
Meant others could prevail.
13.02.20
Let The Pens Flow - Narrative Poetry Contest : sponsored by Jenish Somadas
N/A
A Historic Event Poetry Contest - William Kekaula
NOTE:
On 1 November 1666 farm worker Abraham Morten gasped his final breath - the last of 260 people to die from bubonic plague in the remote Derbyshire village of Eyam. Their fate had been sealed four months earlier when, after the onset of the plague from flea-infested cloth from London, the entire village made the remarkable decision to quarantine itself in an heroic attempt to halt the spread of the Great Plague.
Particularly pronounce abscess,
when rites of spring accursedness
prevails, asper testament, sans swell
scored psychological achiness
recording minecrafted history,
viz secreting acridness
permeates profusely predicated puberty,
akin to ambling au naturale adulteress
plethora plush plumage plus perfume
presage prickly profuse inauspicious pre/
post pubescent and adult affectlessness
propensity poisons primary predilection
pummeling poking pillorying
perpetual purgatory with aggressiveness.
Now translated into bumpy
layman's/woman's terms, aye
communicate, albeit stylishly campy
adhering, colluding, and choppily try
trending without trademark obfuscation,
nonetheless, a feeble
attempt might still defy,
an honest to dog ambition to express
how blooming in the dales less
sons glee aware, how lovers press
lips close together, when yours truly
shuttered himself in bedroom
of boyhood home to cope with stress
thus denying, depriving,
and destroying bone
a fied hankering,
asper this pooch hood doth hone
ache, never to experience puppy love
til pooch later in life,
when he became at present
male version, sans crone
revisiting, reliving, and
reflecting being alone
without ever touching, savoring,
and rubbing smooth cheekbone
of a lass - see, this thy reason
Matthew Scott doth bemoan
observing young bucks,
who liberate kickstarter jangling hormone
he oozes with envy those whippersnappers
gathering rosebuds while they may intone
enjoyment, qua the vitality, virility, and victory
before youth fleetingly passes versus millstone
weighing heavier with each passing year
before the grim reaper doth phone!
No! I Am Not Lying To You
No! I am not lying to you.
It seems Life’s turnings here and now contain
Inauspicious shapes of endless goings and comings;
It seems Life’s headwaters of the deep waxed well,
the great steward river, of cold sinew and intractability is
rushing backward through bloody tubes and rusty spires.
It seems Life’s dead people have arisen, unbeknownst
to the living, from astonished graves in gaping graveyards.
No! I am not lying to you.
There was a time indeed when a human person like me,
could calmly sit across from a human person like you,
and the both of us could pleasurably redeem the consuming time with
eyeful silences and poised stares containing muted determinations;
something like destiny showing up and knocking on the door,
saying: “your pizza is here,” and you open the door wearing only
stupid shades while reading with an ivory looking glass.
No! I am not lying to you.
There was a time when life was peacefully secure and placid,
back when the pleased and complacent skies seemed bluer,
safer than today’s chemical shroud impregnated by ejaculating jets,
35 thousand feet above the mad wasteland of spiritual coma;
The pulling dying aimless road to wherever your body is traveling to,
Is now a long coursing road paved with the fallow stones of fear.
These bloody sunsets have a raspy roar heard only in the death pits,
The final hors d'oeuvres served with croutons and screaming dramas;
There is now no turning down the forgotten deserted side streets,
hidden by shady oleander trees wearing bonnets of poisonous fire.
No! I am not lying to you.
Shyness, more than usual, had been my core kryptonite!
Innocent me! Like a panda bear, in my boyhood! Bright!
Girlish, the grown-ups crowned me! An inauspicious floret!
Praying: May boldness breathes in me by the Holy Spirit!!
Youthfulness, like a peacock, expressed blissful boyishness!
Cherished, as in a colorful garden, in joyousness!
There entered, as though foul eagles, the puritan grown-ups!
Blowing up every flaw of mine in colorful close-ups!!
Then, the kryptonite of my unwillingness to marry!
As I felt, I need not have heavy burdens to carry!
There crept in, the vultures, questioning my male potency!
Laughed! Abandoned me at the hands of divine destiny!!
A fallacy, like an unknown big bug, entered my brain!
Or a mess, hell-like, hidden by grown-ups, for greater gain!
Link of truth, broken betwixt my, fantasies and person!
Or elements, like messy knots, leading me to treason...!!
All these kryptonite, were not like black kraits, life-consuming!
But something unknown went within me was very glooming!
Though the meaning of life, like permanent flowers, blooming!
Dejections... despairs..., day after day, dignity dooming!!
Heavy drinking, nay, my drunkenness, lo, held its head high!
Like a fallen man’s land-hit-head, looking up to the sky!
Friends, angels of greed, no gain from me, left far from my sight!
Alcoholism, though an excuse, became my kryptonite!
07 October 2021
YOUR KRYPTONITE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco