Long Latin Poems
Long Latin Poems. Below are the most popular long Latin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Latin poems by poem length and keyword.
“Go BANG!”
"Is that a gun in your pocket?"
She said
"Careful, I recommend
you need to be undercover,
and soon, call it Espionage M
You’re so disjointed
It's exasperating
but endearing"
He said
"Danger is Your Middle Name
You’ve been decoded!"
She said
"But rest easy, so far
not defrocked
We need you triggering
pistols, and playing
Russian Roulette
and Shuttle Cock -
it will assist me
if your outcome is
alive not dead"
He said
"Dear Badminton,
Is that the same as
being decrypted in bed?
Of course, if you prefer,
we could -
tread water naked
with sharks instead"
She said
"I love it when you
split hairs over slang
Special Agent,
leave the Latin for Corsica,
Confessions remain
secrets left unsaid -
Let’s go vesper
riding full monty
with the high priests of
soliloquy instead...
By the way, you failed to
answer my question -
Is that a gun in your pocket?"
She said
He said
"Come here and pull
the trigger, it’s a
lethal weapon
consider it a
suave kind of
special Agent thing...
Your mission, dearest Cabin Fever"
he pushed the envelope towards her,
"should you so wish to proceed here…."
"Go BANG!"
She said
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Go Bang" / PNAU
https://youtu.be/PIn4SCgeHsw
"Chameleon / PNAU
https://youtu.be/s2pp_ZAk6Uw
Lyrics:
"Chameleon" / PNA
https://genius.com/Pnau-chameleon-lyrics
"Go Bang" / PNA
https://genius.com/Pnau-go-bang-lyrics
Thomas Aquinas ,a 13th century Italian friar first recorded use of the anapestic meter in the AABBA form with prayers in Latin until Edward Lear used theform for humourous verse.The title Limerick is more uncertain but might have aconnection to the Irish town of that name
ORIGINS
There once lived a friar,Thomas of Aquino
in latin,did his poetry flow
In a prayer anapestic
this form was to stick
until Lear gave AABBA ,a go
ALONG THESE LINES
There was a young man from France
who led his friends a fine dance
Some thought him a prude
others said he was rude
Looking at him quite askance
morning cbc
alert to all consumers
your program's been writ
wall street controls andt
the object is behavior
it is to be changed
without one's knowledge
through psychological names
on consumer goods
to millenials
you are right for the fodder
that feeds the machine
you get what you buy
technology addiction
it's all in the name
and you've got sore feet
walking all day with head down
the world escaped
to your private cell
or your home pad your i-pod
movie in private
your present was writ
technology has you trapped
the institution
provides walking-cells
and i-pods (latin: sore feet)
just another screen
stan sand
THE CHRONOPHAGE
Ghostly levitating on the Cambridge street since 2008,
the Corpus Clock reveals the ugly-beauty of time.
A gleaming gold-plated clock facade attracts you,
the malicious monster moving mechanically
repulses you. It controls the whole clock,
creating a constant grinding noise.
The hour is tolled by the sound
of a chain clanking into
a coffin hidden in
the back of the
clock.
Once every five moments, the clock face tells the time correctly.
The chronology of chronometry is cast aside allegorically for a
second or two. The pendulum pulses purposefully making
the display lights freeze, fall behind and then fire ahead.
Thousands of tourists take photographs of the artwork.
While students and residents rush by the window, it’s
merciless message ringing upon death minds.
If you stop and stare for it long enough,
you see your warped reflection.
Am I using time wisely or not?
Much like the carvings written upon an ancient gravestone,
below states ‘mundus transit et concupiscentia eius’.
The Chronophage knows you have read this
inscription. It’s clawed clockwork teeth tells
you the ticking truth; “Time is not on your
side. I’ll eat up every minute of your life
and as soon as one has gone, I’ll be
salivating for the next.”
Time is ticking…
.
i were there
yep
whence reality emerged 'bout hern torso
but patiently
as mine recallz
well
not patiently
yet until mine almost
old
mine eyne
duke's digits
likewise
mine quivering moist
lips
tarry'd
'til yup my
locked eagerly
hern excited
swollen
I Won't Say It
buuht
sum wear
'round hern long'n
t!ts
*whence used correctly vide supra
*mamma; merriam-webster.com
Latin, "breast" ') whoooo luvz yuh
I was walking down to the taco joint
wearing my new conical Chinese hat,
I looked how it looked, it gave me some flair,
but some beta-hipster took issue with that.
He stalked up and said,”It’s people like you
who are holding us back as a nation!
Do you not realize how offensive that ?
It’s cultural appropriation!”
I rolled my yes and weight if I wanted
to take the time now to deal with this crap,
betting the fool wouldn’t have raised a fuss
if I’d worn my Oktoberfest cap.
But when I saw the man’s smug scowl
there was no question what I would do,
said,”Before we talk about my hat,
we should first see the problems in you.
“I see that you’re wearing denim jeans,
and denim first came from fair Italy,
so unless you are an Italian man
you better drop them right here in the street.
“And there upon you shirt, a name and a number,
don’t you know our numbers are Arabic?
And since you clearly are not an Arab,
you’re wearing of them makes me quite sick!
“And the worlds sprawled across all your clothing,
spelled out in the Latin alphabet…
Unless you’re Roman you shouldn’t wear that,
what the hell is going on in your head?
“You know now that I come to think of it,
Democracy was thought up by the Greeks,
as you’re not one, you shouldn’t be voting,
unless insulting them is what you seek.
“And don’t even think about eating corn,
the First Americans invented it,
it’s part of their culture, so if you care
never again eat a tortilla chip!
“Or you could just grow the hell on up,
cultures borrow from others all the time,
they’re not a straight jacket, they always adapt
to the ever-changing challenge of time.”
I stopped and stared at the man’s angry face,
I figured even he must get the gist,
instead he scowled harder somehow,
cried,”You nothing more then a damn fascist!”
In no mood to waste anymore of my life,
I sighed and walked away from that twit,
appropriated some crunchy tacos,
and stayed up late watching Samurai flicks.
We danced like dappled light through swaying trees
our golden embers stoked by panting breeze
in bed of canterbury red and phlox.
As lusty wooing coos did float through morn
love sounds of seventh heaven Sol did scorn;
with scents and flames of burning equinox,
our passion dimmed the jealous sun with ease.
Susan Ashley
June 24, 2018
~ First Place ~
Contest: Best Rhyming Poem April-July 15, 2018
Sponsor: John Hamilton
~ Fifth Place ~
Contest:End June 2018 Premiere
Sponsor: Brian Strand
*red canterbury bells* - symbolizes deep romantic love, passion
*phlox* - Latin from Greek: flame; a plant of glowing color
Milton’s Paradise Lost is a book I sometimes dip into. For modern
readers it does not lend itself to a quick browse. It’s pretty clear from the
start who dunnit.
My version in paperback contains insightful explanatory notes.
Apparently “Science” in the Tempter’s words“ O Sacred,
Wise and Wisdom giving Plant, Mother of Science”,* being derived from the Latin verb “scire”, really means what we now understand as “knowledge”.
This note seems to be for the benefit of such innocents who are
unaware of the process of diachronic semantic change, and who
may also entertain misgivings about nuclear power plants.
Newton’s apple might jolt us into considering matters of considerable
gravity.
Today we are concerned more about fallout than with the Fall, more
with the atom than with Adam.
Science is not primarily concerned with moral questions, yet
we have all benefited from science. That science has also
furnished Man with the means of self-extermination and involves environmental pollution on a global scale we must accept as collateral damage, call it what you will.
Science is not primarily concerned with moral questions.
Even though scientific knowledge is based on the axiom that our sensory perceptions, the experiments, observations and theories of science cohere,
being phenomena in one and the same time-space continuum, a scientist
should not be diverted from his or her quest by troublesome thoughts about extraneous factors, be they social, political or moral in nature, that impinge on the awareness of one indivisible reality.
In Milton’s day “science” simply meant “knowledge”.
Milton was concerned with the problem of good and evil, the relationship of God and Man, the conflict between Truth and Mammon, not with the complex realities of our modern industrial high-tech world.
Perhaps cogito ergo sum, that premise of the modern scientific method, also has a moral dimension.
Milton’s Paradise Lost is a book I occasionally dip into.
Emblazoned on a metalic field
Leeds coat of arms displays an azore shield.
Upon a sable chief, this deep black bar,
Three mullets argent, silver stars.
On a chain of or, beneath the chief,
Hangs the finest golden fleece.
Surmounting the crest, rests a wreath of blue,
Perches an owl proper,of natural hue.
Supporting each side,two owls with plumage brown,,
Ducally gorged with a golden crown.
Underneath, inscribed on a scroll
PRO REGE ET LEGE it does extol.
Latin translates ' FOR KING AND THE LAW'
A motto born after civil war.
7/ 29/ 2015.
The city of Leeds
In the county of Yorkshire
England.
George Barrie Seal.
and strolling around their garden I imagine our child:
grass tickling my toes like gelled hair, spiked when a teenager;
two slides out for summer, side by side, form his legs, sturdy;
her arms rise and fall in celebration, despair,
alongside the motion of the toddler’s swing.
The bunting, hung from tree to lamp and back again,
create dancing shadows of teeth:
some small, milky; others larger, wisdom.
Back on the patio I hear clinking ice and cutlery clashing into
the voices of a midsummer’s evening -
the chatter of our child, too, who’ll learn to speak…
Latin?
… who will know the names of flowers and stems and petals
that nestle inside these hedges and roots within soil
that will become their wrinkles,
their varicose veins of age and experience.
The paving slabs at my feet are his scabs.
The crack in concrete show me itchy flesh,
dry under plasters from when she fell.
Their garden trampoline grows into our child’s skin:
undulating, stretching with each bouncing year, then
tightening when under pressure only to
loosen, be at ease… perhaps when in love?
The branches of their garden trees curl lashes
around eyes that are leaves blinking in answer
to each gentle sigh of this summer night’s breeze and
strolling around our friend’s garden -
tealights and smiles, spoon, a christening -
I try to see our child in their summery bloom
ignoring the winter inside me;
the barren field, where I wish our
baby did blossom