Long Journalist Poems
Long Journalist Poems. Below are the most popular long Journalist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Journalist poems by poem length and keyword.
The famous journalist and author Margaret Mitchell
Dressed in pants so mother wouldn't have to watch a vigil
Her brother insisted if she was to play with him she would be a boy named Jimmy
I bet her mother saved thousands of dollars on her childhood shimmy
Shimmy- an undergarment worn by a female
Margaret Mitchell wrote the novel "Gone With The Wind"
Written: June 01, 2015
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Contest: Cleri-who?
When Margaret was little her dress caught on fire on the fire iron grate but she was not hurt and all turned out well but her mother started dressing her in boys pants to avoid that happening again..She was nicknamed Jimmy from a cartoon character of that time..Of course, the nickname did not stay beyond childhood..
Shema ("Listen")
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who live secure
in your comfortable homes,
who return each evening to find
warm food and a hearty welcome ...
Consider: is this a "man"
who slogs through the mud,
who knows no peace,
who fights for scraps of bread,
who lives at another man's whim,
who at his "yes" or his "no" lies dead?
Consider: is this is a "woman"
shorn bald and bereft of a name
because she lacks the strength to remember,
her eyes as void and her womb as frigid
as a winter frog's?
Consider that such horrors have indeed been!
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them in your hearts
when you lounge in your beds
and again when you rise,
when you venture outside.
Repeat them to your children,
or may your houses softly crumble
and disease render you equally as humble
so that even your offspring avert their eyes.
Primo Michele Levi [1919-1987] was an Italian Jewish chemist, scientist, Holocaust survivor, writer, journalist and poet. He was the author of two novels and several collections of short stories, essays, and poems. He is best known for If This Is a Man, his account of the year he spent as a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. His unique work The Periodic Table was shortlisted as one of the greatest scientific books ever written, by the Royal Institution of Great Britain. Levi's autobiographical book about his liberation from Auschwitz, The Truce, became a movie with the same name in 1997. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Italian, Jewish, translation, man, mud, woman, bald, nameless, houses, homes, bread, eyes, womb, empty, void, frigid, lifeless, horror, horrors, hearts, write, etch, engrave, inscribe, children, offspring, disease, avert, reject, race, racist, racism, man, men, woman, women, house, home
When the soup is not good,
That the mushrooms are poisonous,
That my head will explode,
That a journalist lies to me,
I think of Jennifer Lawrence,
She alone understands me,
His beauty triumphs over the male,
Over Lies, hypocrisy,
When my rondeau disappoints,
That the journalist lies to me,
That the soup is not good
That my head will explode,
I think of Jennifer Lauwrence.
Quand la soupe n’est pas bonne,
Que les champignons sont vénéneux,
Que ma tête va exploser,
Qu’un journaliste me ment,
Je pense à Jennifer Lawrence,
Elle seule me comprend,
Sa beauté triomphe du mâle,
Du mensonge, de l’hypocrisie,
Quand mon rondeau déçoit,
Que le journaliste me ment,
Que la soupe n’est pas bonne
Que ma tête va exploser,
Je pense à Jennifer Lawrence.
The quyeer one's into lectures.' Well he?? yes he is the pm.!
A background full of law, and saville ignoranc, no intent' to
Besmirch or to scandal.' I don't think there is need he is
Personally in thst quite active.' I'll try to bring all up to speed." He has locked up free speech.' And a journalist too.!
Name of Tommy Robinson.' Who screened a film that was
And is so true, i don"t know him socially, for we never have
Met.' Yet I advise his release.' That good order be kept, that
Law may be seen to be impartial.' That it may be seen that
It is done' In the interests of a country that once put true
Justice as priority number one.'
Fugitive Truth -Asad Chowdhury
Reciter - Shimul Mustapha
Fugitive truth, where did they all go?
In bottled milk, rice bowls! Nowhere to know!
In the restaurants, hotels, salons
In a library and inside antique smells
Television or cinema, radio
In a boat ride or snake charming carrier truth, nowhere to know!
Where molasses Jars, and poison boxes
With candy pots and those grocery bags stay
Cigarette cases , betel cans
In zarda boxes and in the laxmi, carved,
In motif of culinary, underneath the furniture
Looked for them, and all of them, only to fail, to ponder !
A journalist and the wooden desk
In papers and books and the scriptures and pens
Injections and the eczema gels
In vanity purses, pockets and attires
In drawers, banks and iron safe, a rare
Truth and the glorified truth, nay, nowhere!
In poems , in songs
In feminine those gestures to kindle house warm
fanatic those mayhem to dense
Dramatic those dialogues, abreast
To rule, to speak
In the dark, or to lit
In lines or in lines of pens
In answers to those questionnaires
In gowns ,performed or in those syllabus, understood
In permits or in those bonus boons blessed
In depression or in optimism, they
In love and care and from these depth of lover affair, says
Not even in black markets, no
Truth, where did they all go?
The dedication of this journalist gem
Whose writing, brought down
Drug dealing men
Eire's Sunday Tribune
And Sunday's Business Post
Newspapers of note, for in them she wrote
But it was the criminal world
And her writings so splendent
That craved her to write for the Sunday Independent
This brave reporter put her life on the line
To reveal to her country
Their drug filled slime
To avoid libel
Pseudonyms she chose
To protect the paper, from legal blows
Drug dealers uncovered
Showing their ill gotten gains
Irrespective of lives and families pains
Threats turned to visits, firing shots at her home
To deter her uncovering
In her investigative roam
Three months later she was shot in the leg
But the dedication of her
Thousands of newspapers were read
Near Newlands Cross
On the outskirts of Dublin
On a motorbike, two men with a gun
At a traffic light junction
With a Magnum .357
Ireland's Journalist Jewel, was taken to heaven
The name of this gem
Veronica Guerin
" In memory of a brave woman, wife and mother who took on the
criminal underworld in Dublin, Eire "
"Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we're here for something else besides ourselves,” ~ journalist Eric Severeid.
A brittle snow slowly begins to fall,
The silent night, a peaceful, quiet sound,
The whispering of a faraway call,
As faded memories come rushing round,
Of all the wooden toys made on the ground,
And all the festive magic was soon found.
The scent of pine throughout the house would flow,
A simple tree adorned with tinsel bright,
The tinsel hung where watchers saw it glow,
Beneath the twinkle of the gentle light,
The world was painted silver, soft and white,
A quiet wonder in the winter night.
The cozy fire would crackle, warm and deep,
While listeners wait for a sleigh up high,
And drowsy eyelids struggled hard to keep,
But drifted off while watching stars go by,
A peaceful world beneath a silent sky,
As Christmas evening passes with a sigh.
Awaken to gifts that are piled up high,
With ribbon red and wrapping paper bright,
The joyous laughter of a time gone by,
Oh, what a wondrous and amazing sight,
A pure excitement, bringing such delight,
The plain innocence of the Christmas light.
Now years have passed, and moments turned to gray,
But still the heart remembers a la carte,
The simple magic of a single day,
The love that is shared, deep within the heart,
The purest memories that never part,
A Christmas feeling, a nostalgic art.
In their embassy trapped the journalist
Was accused for being no royalist
Was tortured then he was killed
His body with knives they filled
Now they say that he was a bigamist!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
22 November 2018
10-10-7-7-10
* The killing of journalist Jamal Khashogi by Saudi agents should be everyone's concern for
if governments kill their citizens and get away with murder it will not take long before each one of us becomes a potential victim.
I dedicate this poem to the slain journalist. May he rest in peace.
We poets should not remain silent but ought to speak up for the sanctity of human life!
A pro-active journalist
is like a research-committed teacher
teaching and listening to cooperative research designs
and presentations.
The opposite of the journalist's deconstruction
of events
is reconstruction through predictive narrative.
Just as the opposite of permaculture's green activist
regeneration
is pathological degeneration
emerging from past too-monoculturing memory
Back toward too much red-meat butchering
and ballistic slaughter
swimming in pathogens
about health-resilient DNA-RNA solidarity genes
for future regenerative reconstructions.
Recently
the local writer of Permaculture Opera
invited me to his and her place,
I'm still not sure s/he has chosen
Either/Or gender,
for a co-author interview.
But I need to arrive
just before dawn
and not drive in
or even toward
EarthSoul's healthy address,
if at all possible.
So, I'm riding my bike
and arrive just as pre-dawn light
could reveal river homefront terrain.
There s/he is
atop a barren maple tree,
facing East
across a valley,
rocking back and forth
from north to south
and back again...
S/he calls "Good Morning!"
as if this emerging light
has already made Earth's best day invitation
convocation
to and for those less grumpy
and feeling old-knees and hips frumpy.
S/he welcomes me up
and so I go
with all my Senior Citizen climbing years
behind me
to rest just below Earth's swaggering
Operatic sway.
Before I can ask
what s/he is doing
S/he tells me
This is Earth's centering sit spot
from which s/he greets our vibrant Sun
when clouds do not grey stand
in dark swaying way.
Here s/he waves back
as Earth's trees thank FatherSun
for waving forth
paid-forward
toward this WuWei Day
West for Ego Win
and East of EcoRooting Yin
discerning through and after dualdark night.
Like a Permaculture Opera
opening each morning,
each life,
this ego/eco centric
Western swaying
dusk-fading glory.
My Opera piece will begin
There's no such health-listening thing
as a non-teachable moment.
A local pro-active journalist
sways like a research-committed teacher
teaching cooperative research design
through re-presentational invitations...
I myself kind of find this hard to believe,
but Billy the Kid, aka William H Bonney,
this long dead figure of American history,
often helps me therapeutically.
Whenever I find myself super depressed,
I think about what Billy the Kid said,
shortly after he was sentenced to death.
Shackled Billy left the courthouse smiling, almost as if in glee.
"Why are you smiling?" a journalist asked him inquisitively.
The Kid responded nonchalantly,
"What's the point in dwelling on the dreary side of life?
Today the joke is on me."
After thinking about that for a spell, I'm as happy go lucky as he.
Thank you for the therapy Mr William H Bonney.