Long Literary Poems
Long Literary Poems. Below are the most popular long Literary by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Literary poems by poem length and keyword.
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get OJT?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all the mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been more than enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
5 dollars burning a whole in my pocket
Watching every second of the clock tick
Please bell hurry and ring, I'm waiting to go browse and buy my way to happiness
Everything I ever wanted in the world was waiting down the hall in my school library
Forget Christmas, Forget Spring Break
Nothing compared to the excitement I felt for the Schoolastic Book Fair
I'd walk around every aisle running my fingers over all the covers and down every spine
Searching for the the stories that longed to be mine
These were the days I couldn't wait to get home
I would run outside to dig into my treasure,
What adventure I would find underneath the large oak trees that lined the cracked concrete on my quiet empty street
A literary escape on a chilly fall evening
A different life for me awaits
It came from a beloved book; the dream
Long lost, or so I thought,
which told: Go to your Turkey
and meet the Rumi in your dreams;
to complete his story; if I were the
story teller,destined,
for love comes from the strangest of places.
I hoped to make the dream come true.
'The Poet'* told me: Find the deserts
that hide within the city;
like the grief hidden beneath a happy face.
He wrote me a poem,with all blessings.
How I hold those poems dear!
But was it a feeling that came and left on its own?
For I no more find Turkey wherever I look.
And I am hopeless to go there;
and die before my Death.
May be Turkey is somewhere near
I just need time to find where.
"Even if I were the Shams,
where is the Rumi to see the beauty!"
Where the Boundaries disappear;
Timelessness creep in;
Names forgotten ;
and nothing but Love remains.
Upon there is my journey
and there lies my destination.
Please don't stop the beautiful dreams.
I am thirsty for more!
*
The poem was inspired from the reading of the book 'Forty Rules of Love' written
by Elif Shafak ,based on the beautiful story of the Sufi poet
Rumi and his beloved soulmate Shams of Thabriz. Suddenly I was too much into the words of Rumi,
to know him more and more. In a literary event, a poet wrote a short poem for me after we talked about dreams of visiting Turkey , Rumi and dervishes. The process was called busking.
Forever grateful for that poem 'Dreams of Desert'.
Cowards die many times before their deaths…
Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene 2 ~William Shakespeare
spouse
a souse
classic grouse
a big girl's blouse
portent ominous
assertions blasphemous
obscure and anonymous
his skulking is nefarious
utterances acrimonious
and implicature often dubious
uxorious but still pusillanimous
**********************************
An example of a rhopalic verse.
Rhopalism: A rhopalic sentence is one in which each successive word is one letter longer than the previous one. In poetry: where each word is one syllable more, or it might increase each line in a stanza by one syllable (per my example), or a metric foot.
IN THE SAME CATEGORY OF CONSTRAINED WRITING
The Rhopalic Couplet, also called Wedge Verse, was first used by Homer in the Iliad (3.182). It is a poetic unit of 2 rhopalic lines where each word progresses adding one more syllable than the preceding word in the line, for example, 1, 2, 3, 4 … syllables. The sequence of the syllable count can be identical in the second line, or it may be reversed. The couplet does not need not rhyme.
_____________________________________________________________
In The Coward, stanzas are broken up along the syllables of the end rhymes: spouse, souse, grouse, blouse; om-i-nous, blas-phe-mous, a-non-y-mous; ne-far-i-ous, ac-ri-mo-ni-ous, du-bi-ous & pu-sil-lan-i-mous.
LEXICON
acrimonious: (adj) (typically of speech or discussion) angry and bitter.
a big girl’s blouse: British idiom, meaning someone is ineffectual or weak; someone failing to show masculine strength of determination
disposition: (n.) inherent characteristics.
grouse: (n.) one who complains constantly.
implicature: (n.)* the action of implying a meaning beyond the literal sense of what is explicitly stated, for example, saying the picture frame is nice and implying I don’t like the picture.
innate: (n.) inborn, natural
nefarious: (adj) (typically of an action or activity) wicked or criminal.
portent: (n.)
1. a sign or warning that a momentous or calamitous event is likely to happen, an omen.
2. (literary) an exceptional or wonderful person or thing. [‘What portent can be greater than a pious notary.’]
pusillanimous: (adj) showing a lack of courage or determination; timid.
souse: (n.) a drunkard.
We see them sitting in towers
carved from ‘learned’ ivory,
insulated by their tenure
from the world of reality,
poisoning their students minds,
putting bad ideas in their heads,
the kind that in a century
left one hundred million souls dead.
They know they face no consequence,
they even blacklist all others,
it’s the students who pay the cost,
in the real world they all suffer
for imbibing leftist nonsense
that they learned at academy,
betrayed by malign professors,
by ‘elites’ who are not elite.
We see them strutting in Hollywood,
convinced that their fame is greatness,
they want us to watch ever film,
yet our values they dismiss.
Thinking they’re on the cutting edge,
and the we’re all just inbred proles,
they think that lying well on film
makes them the people in the know.
Yet most of them have more spouses
when most people have fingers,
all their rapes are upsetting,
the pedophilia disturbs.
Once called the city of angels,
now just a Sodom on the sea,
a mess of ruined human souls,
an ‘elite’ who are not elite.
Glance upon the creative scenes,
you’ll find many more of this kind,
like the ‘artist’ who wants thirty grand
for a spray-painted orange rind!
Or maybe the plotless writer
who calls it ‘literary fic,’
bad characters just moaning on
about how they’re damaged and sick.
Don’t forget today’s architect
with his swiss-cheese ‘masterpiece,’
it’s supposed to be a building,
nut I looks like concrete feces.
I wouldn’t take any of this
even if given out for free,
they’re making all art hideous,
these ‘elites’ who are not elite.
Then there are all of the blowhards
who make up the modern news,
thinking that you will only see
the things that they pick and choose.
When any man with internet
can see through their partisan crap,
and lord do they get all annoyed
when you call them out on that.
If they cannot win they censor
and double down on their madness,
the idea that they can’t control us
is one they cannot stomach yet.
Those fools will tell me it’s raining
while I walk down a sunny street,
it is far time we tear them down,
damned ‘elites’ who are not elite.
Nobody could take us on a vicarious journey
like the late science fiction writer Ray Bradbury.
He would place his readers into another time and space.
Words flowed onto the pages with style and grace.
Ray would send us on voyages to the stars.
Readers could walk on the sands of Mars.
We could see the future through a man’s tattoos.
There were numerous scenarios for us to choose.
Children were kept company by a robot grandmother.
That was a short story like no other.
Ray took us to a place where books were banned.
We would often wind up in a fascinating land.
Few have accomplished what Ray has done.
He left the living at the age of ninety-one.
His literary works will always be here to read.
Just open a book and see where it will lead.
RIP June 6, 2012
Groundhog day 2021 - Tuesday, February 2nd
Coincides with astronomy's cross-quarter day,
marking the midpoint between
winter solstice and spring equinox,
which will occur at 5:37 AM on
in Northern Hemisphere
Saturday, March 20.
Small consolation old man winter
spans fewest days
of all four seasons,
especially when massive nor'easter
predicted today January 31st, 2021
including within neck of woods
named Perkiomen Valley Pennsylvania.
Yours truly remembers
when spry Jack (hoar) Frost
(just yea high -
both arms stretched to sky)
came early, left late and bossed
vernal equinox
rattling barenaked branches
obviously inapropos
to budding friendship.
Now (courtesy global warming/ climate change)
mother nature experiences feeling strange
within valleys and atop many mountain range,
wherein goods traded away on stock exchange.
Fortunate concerning yours truly
versus daring to brave
inclement weather
getting stranded in the process
(possibly becoming gratefully dead)
risking life and limb venturing forth
amidst near whiteout conditions
creating debacle perilous and grave
shoveling snow lest he get buried
he can remain holed up
(in tandem with the missus)
snug as a bug in his mancave.
While nestled inside warm abode for awhile
(at least until temperature upwards doth dial
safely ensconced against elements (of style),
I stopped at metaphoric woods edge
trekking until... for no rhyme nor reason
the poetic metered equivalent,
viz another mile
then stopped for coffee break
burst of energy gave me cause to smile
fording imponderable stream of consciousness
impossible (airy) mission to dodge regarding
aforesaid daunting task to craft worthwhile
poetic endeavor to entertain anonymous readers
gleaning how one bard (with his shaky spear)
evokes fiction being snowbound
as if cast adrift within Siberian exile.
Straightaway I continue writing askew
aware how literary trademark modality
characteristic of Matthew
unwittingly indelibly embedded
analous to mine Caucasian
versus swarthy melanin hue
man automatically confers eligibility granting
innumerable known mighty opportunities
(privileged skin color - how unfair)
bigoted prejudices shade those,
either hashtagged as black, brown
naturally copper toned gentile and/or Jew.
We were still free to dream,
however, a tax on any imaginative writing
that contravened the rules or regulations
for literary acceptability
or worse
were deemed counter-revolutionary.
In Poland, the last of the hold-outs
wrote odes to Chopin
but essentially all was well ordered and
compliant to the powers that be.
Now that Chinese is a compulsory language
for third graders
many have become re-programmers
for the old and recalcitrant,
but like all wrong-headed reactionaries
the old dwindle only to fade away
in disgrace.
All the false history books
have gone out of print.
Now we study the history of
our brave new world. It is
always sunny here in our
equally allotted cubicles.
Any misinformed die-hards
that wander the streets begging
us to return to the old ways
are quickly rounded up
and sent to our happy
and well attended
correction schools.
Chopin has now
been put on a no-fly list, but few
have heard of his dangerous sonata
or think of it at all anyway.
Patradoot or The Messenger22 /Many
English version by
Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
DESCRIPTION OF MY BELOVED’S PLACE ALLAHABAD
The city of Allahabad is called a Holy shrine since ages,
Because of the mingling of three holy rivers Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati,
Although Saraswati has vanished, it still remains a supreme shrine,
From time immemorial, which can not be determined in words, dear letter,.
The tradition of this prideful possession, dear letter,
Has been maintained by our ancestors since ages,
And many a great men have borne here, dear,
On the sacred land of Prayag or Allahabad, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 18h June 2006 to continue in 23
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
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has any question or queries, they can
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Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my father late
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor in 1932, when he was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
For years he has spent countless hour trying to be noticed.
Finding himself where she was, unconsciously.
He would talk his game, lame as it may be,
this was his way of being seen.
In his dreams he had her, had her many times.
Numerous intimate moments, conversations
they'd have each other again.
Then, as abruptly as it began
this figment becomes an imprint embedded forever,
a memory in a vault of disappointments.
Often,
most days he sits in deep thought, wondering
why not him?
What is it other men have that he doesn't?
Is he to confident in himself? Is he to bright
to where he becomes dull?
Overwhelmed in his literary career?
maybe.
Two weeks go by,
he stays away, distancing himself.
She was becoming a distraction.
Wrapped tightly in his own mystic fantasy world,
intrigued by his new circle of friends.
Bound by sex, work, after parties, and sex.
His mind vexed because love always finds a way to escape him.
Finds him, then disappears.
Is he the culprit?
Could his aggressive confidence play a part?
He only yearns for a better, plentiful life.
Who knows the reason.
Maybe love is like a great wine that is out of season.
Many women have tried to tame his beast,
welcome his skeletons.
One came close to success only to break ties after four years
due to mental distress.
Many years have passed
parties,
after parties,
college parties
Parties galore.
Friends along his life journey turn family.
One night stands occur!
Jared Pickett.....
10/10/2007
Asavvy1