Long Interminable Poems
Long Interminable Poems. Below are the most popular long Interminable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Interminable poems by poem length and keyword.
I know you don't want to hurt
or even disappoint
me
And I know you don't want to hurt
yourself.
Yet still your shame
and self-blame hurt
Your self-judging
punishing closet frame
suffocates our transparent life
my caring curiosity craves,
and mutual vulnerability
our sharing courage braves.
Addiction to feeling happy
is not free
and connected to sensory satisfaction
nor to ego significant gratification
and certainly does not feed natural
and water spiritual
bilateral wealth
of healthy feeling transubstantiation,
Which, as you know,
I also recognize as body and mind healthy
choice transformation voices.
Before you even small ego-voice object,
I also recognize you may feel natural
v spiritual choice
has nothing to do with driving off
without "goodbye,
see you safely soon."
If no physically tolerable choice
of resources to feed serotonin
and water dopamine,
I know, from years of isolated,
neglected depressive experience,
how frightening loss of lonely
yet sufficient ego-powered control
can feel chronic lack of thrival.
Speaking not of win/win choice,
but inside swatting interminable win/lose Voice
never still
until you self-shame
and blame
hiding hurts
and unfree frames
us both,
unhappy you,
not Here,
And me
loving EarthNatured
EgoSpirited enough for Us,
not yet togathered Now
Still worrying
what will voiceless nonchoice happen
disempowered There
and unenlightened Then
'til suddenly Amen
Our silently uninvited
apartheid End.
Metaphor and simile have been with the human race for thousands of years. This is my English translation of an excerpt from an ancient Egyptian poem estimated to be around 4,000 years old:
Excerpt from "Dialogue of a Misanthrope with his Soul"
(ancient Egyptian poem circa 2000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death lies before me:
like a sick man’s recovery,
like entering a garden after an interminable illness.
Death lies before me:
like the fragrance of myrrh,
like sitting beneath a billowing sail with a favorable wind.
Death lies before me:
like swimming in the course of a stream,
like a man’s return from the slave-galley to freedom.
Death lies before me:
like the sky when it clears,
like a man's longing to see his home after countless years of captivity.
Keywords/Tags: Egyptian, translation, dialogue, dialog, misanthrope, soul, death, illness, sick, sickness, recovery from, myrrh, sail, wind, freedom, sky, captivity, slave, slavery, soulmate
Those born unto a family large will know whereof I speak.
When you sat at table, to get your fill there was a technique!
During Pa's interminable grace, bellies would begin to growl,
Anticipating the meat and taters or noodles with the fowl.
There was a paucity of babble as the cutlery began to clatter.
(I always had my eye on that chicken leg reposing on the platter!)
But I usually had a choice of the lowly gizzard or the liver,
Or maybe the rooster's scrawny neck, that ghastly bony sliver!
On the Hoosier farm there were bushels of Russet pertaters,
And from Ma's bountiful garden, juicy beefsteak termaters,
But you must be very deft when such was set upon the table.
When the grub was passed, you snatched whatever you were able!
Being one of the littlest kids in the tribe was my bane!
That invariably placed me nigh the end of the food chain.
Little was said 'cept and occasional, "Please pass the salt."
As elbows flew during that aggressive culinary assault!
When company came, tradition was that women and kids ate last,
While we young'uns agonized, the men enjoyed their repast!
I mumbled 'neath my breath (and it wasn't always "praise" the Lord!),
As I impatiently awaited my vittles from Ma's sumptuous board!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Gag my mouth to thwart my speech and seal my protests
But the language of my eyes will be heard in the hallowed highs,
I speak not to be heard by those that have no ears to hear
But to confirm that my words have reached the skies.
Tie my feet and hinder my motion
And I still will globe-trot the untrodden earth,
For I walk not on the legs you see,
And I will walk on every road and sail to every firth.
You cannot manacle my hands
Although you may handcuff them with a chain,
The arms I have are invisible to you
And the ones you see you bind in vain.
And you never can kill me
For my life is in the air you ignore;
My body died long before I was born,
Before the rains of brutality began to pour.
I will speak against your contrary wish
And I’ll walk although my legs you may tie;
My hands will wield miracles wherever they’re waved,
For my soul has sworn never to die.
We’re absorbed
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
tired brains monopolized
by the clutter of the meal tray,
numbed by hours of jiggling -
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
wedged into
a restricted boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
if an engine fails
few will find the strength to panic,
we’ll keep decanting small bottles
of vin de table,
studiously apply hard butter
to soft buns.
As the aircraft plummets earthward
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small, molded cruets,
glad to be occupied
and totally blanked out
to what comes next -
or whatever.
How grateful I shall ever be for the creative gal or guy,
Who concocted and perpetuated the luscious "punkin" pie!
Ah! The thought of a golden "punkin" pie with flaky crust,
Stimulates my taste buds with sinful epicurean lust!
You can call it "pumpkin" or "punkin" pie, I don't care,
Just as long as it's on the menu for Thanksgiving fare.
Pecan, apple and cherry pies are pleasing to the eye,
But Thanksgiving just ain't Thanksgiving without a "punkin" pie!
As a lad I suffered through my Pa's interminable blessing,
Then I dawdled over a plate of my Ma's oyster dressing,
And toyed with a yam and piece of turkey thigh,
But all I really wanted was a hunk of "punkin" pie!
The perfect "punkin" pie, I can vouch, is made by my spouse.
I nearly swoon savoring the aroma wafting about the house!
To sample a wedge of that treat, my palate is just itchin',
But I am unceremoniously invited to vacate the kitchen!
I suppose the repast must include turkey and sweet pertaters,
And a relish tray with gherkins, olives and cherry termaters,
But upon this old but true aphorism you can rely,
Thanksgiving just ain't Thanksgiving without a "punkin" pie!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 5 in the "Dreamy Desserts" Contest - June 2010
Buna
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mangled feet, cursed earth,
the long interminable line in the gray morning
as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys...
Another gray day like every other day awaits us.
The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn:
"Rise, wretched multitudes, with your lifeless faces,
welcome the monotonous hell of the mud...
another day’s suffering has begun!"
Weary companion, I know you well.
I see your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend.
In your breast you bear the burden of cold, deprivation, emptiness.
Life long ago broke what remained of your courage.
Colorless one, you once were a real man;
a considerable woman once accompanied you.
But now, my invisible companion, you lack even a name.
So forsaken, you are unable to weep.
So poor in spirit, you can no longer grieve.
So tired, your flesh can no longer shiver with fear...
My once-strong man, now spent,
were we to meet again
in some other world, beneath some sunnier sun,
with what unfamiliar faces would we recognize each other?
Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp, with around 40, 000 foreigners “workers” who had been enslaved by the Nazis. Primo Levi called the Jews of Buna the “slaves of slaves” because the other slaves outranked them. Despite Buna’s immense size and four years of activity, according to Levi it never produced a kilo of its intended product: synthetic rubber. Levi described Buna as “desperately and essentially opaque and gray.” He said not a blade of grass grew within the compound because its soil had been impregnated with the “poisonous juices of coal and petroleum” so that nothing was alive but machines and slaves, with the former “more alive” than the latter. Levi also related hearing a Buna Kapo say that the only way Jews could leave Auschwitz was “through the Chimney” of the crematorium. It is possible that the companion being addressed in “Buna” is Primo Levi himself, recognizing what he had been reduced to. Keywords/Tags: Primo Levi, translation, Holocaust poem, Auschwitz, Buna, mud, chimney, smoke, smoking, crematorium, corpses, bodies, death, murder, starvation, gray, color, colorless, invisible, nameless, slave, slaves, slavery, slave labor, race, racist, racism, horror, hell
timid, meek, and demure (effeminate) me,
essentially ruled the roost
regarding Harris household
sole son characterized vis a vis
presented passive resistant
outward nonestablishmentarian mold
worst case scenario
would witness Matthew Scott Harris
spending longevity old and feeble minded
at 324 Level Road
outliving parents, pets
(comprising inordinate
number of dust bunnies) and siblings
(an older and younger sister),
the latter whose globetrotting exploits I envied,
nevertheless outlived anyone polled
even Methuselah, where mein kampf
blissful, fanciful, nouveau poet
nearly long forgotten boyhood charade,
facade inlaid masquerade
crumbled like broken scaffold
attaining centenarian years old -
faintly maintaining umbilical stronghold
considerably surpassing mommy dearest,
born November 13th, nineteen thirty five,
yet moments before her passing
she barely audibly apologized
for occasions she did reprimand and scold
retaliated against grim reaper,
he whisked her diseased riddled body away
after completing seventy plus orbits, all told.
I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
bullying vulnerability compounded amid
courtesy of split uvula set me apart
alien as a Druid livingsocial
during latter half of twentieth
and first two decades of twenty first century
rather a speech pathologist
informed legal biological guardians
regarding Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic
minor congenital defect when
attending sixth grade at
Henry Kline Boyer Elementary
i.e., submucous cleft palate, aforesaid
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid
me, this twangy nasal kid
my undersized and socially
withdrawn demeanor contributing
to existence tumultuous and turbid.
12/06/2020 03:41 PM.
Imagine a long and winding line
all the way to Jabip
upon the handle of small grocery cart
envision mine white knuckle grip,
as the misses commandeers
moseying up and down every single aisle,
whereby an electrocardiogram
would indicate spiky sinusoidal blip.
I experience social anxiety
and feel like screaming aloud,
particularly when series
of unfortunate events
finds your truly
within onrushing madding crowd.
Unfortunately courtesy divine comedy
one erstwhile indiscriminately
cast out obsolete player
creator endowed him
with his trademark shaky spear.
One hapless generic garden variety guy
plagued with panic attacks
accursed lifetime providence
hellacious interminable suffering
until permanent escape
quasi vacation deliverance regarding...,
when grim reaper doth
cometh and taketh me away.
Oh savior enshroud impotent mortal man
at long last terminating suffering
welcoming me into portal
I willingly surrender
and welcome release...
beckoning death be not proud.
Impossible mission to describe
how fast paced life in general
generates utter confusion
analogous to floundering trout
besieges mine mental redoubt
mental helter skelter all about
as if mine entire body electric
forced, kickstarted, subjugated...
to perform (yes folks) hokey pokey
mental gears and cogs
snapping, crackling, popping
inside tumbler like noggin
purportedly linkedin hashtagged
with schizoid personality disorder.
Onset of emotional paralysis
stops me dead in my figurative track
metaphorically wishing me to skuttle
back into hermetically sealed manhole
invisible among interleaved bract
where within mine secret cubby hole
I play knick knack paddywhack...
to idle away leisure time
as well as solve crossword puzzles
meditate (on the gift of a watermelon pickle)
while listening to natural soundtrack,
and self hypnotize courtesy biofeedback.
The crowbar rattled at the clattering noise,
In the yard, against the hulls and hoys,
A Cloud of tar smoke rose through the green,
Large oil slicks floating on the lake sheen.
Inconsistent hills throughout the landscape,
The sunlight was a deep purple color shape,
Similar to the finishes of Florentine bronze,
That's it for the day, no real swans.
Overwhelming sadness now needs our song,
From death, an awful lot of sadness sprung,
What type of tears? What heart's grief arrest,
What sighs on sighs lobs the mom's breast?
With faint homes to brilliant ethereal light,
The enchanted guiltless has taken flight,
On the liberal bosom of undying love,
We find a concealed elevation above.
Warden, I realize you both mourn her loss,
She no longer feels the hold of pain across,
The regulations of elegance are without bias,
You can turn your pain into grace and praise.
The dread of the interminable assault,
The arrival of gizmos has long been sought,
All these notions had a major effect on history,
Each was a frightening age-related mystery.
The attack on slavery was nonsense,
Designed to hide the ambitions for pretense,
Never before has a tiny beast attacked so hard,
It just bites its horns and hides with its tiny shard.
Thoughts on webcasts, phone calls, Facebook,
Rising vitality contains attacks and an ebook,
Both were made by teenagers in their twenties
Bounty drives and precious realities.
Do not shed tears in the flowing river,
No real pain in the dark pits to deliver,
The first light was magnificently bright,
It was soon covered by the haze of the night.
This eliminates spontaneity, love, and anxiety,
It steals time and hides physical and moral piety,
Concept, politics, creation, and profit come first,
A blitzing slave was a lie to hide the curst.
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: September 08, 2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol 32 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh