Long Lordly Poems
Long Lordly Poems. Below are the most popular long Lordly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lordly poems by poem length and keyword.
at the beginning earth was a place uninhabitable
to any living thing, it was nothing but a furiously
burning wandering fireball in an immeasurable open space
while wandering in space,
however, hit by the meteoric showers, bumped into planetoids,
and from its own gravity the earth gradually lost its surface heat
and became a gigantic piece of rock covered with the great many wrinkles
in order to survive,
the living thing cannot afford to lose time any more in this darkness of unknown beginning or inconceivable end, it must find a place to settle and bring new life
into the world,
came and clung to the surface of the rock and struggled to hold onto it
one day, when a cry of pitiable life tore the standstill time into pieces
because it was unable to bear the time that is infinitely quiescent any longer,
it echoed in the space and returned to earth as a dim light
in that light the sighs of the living thing heaped up high
and became air, in that gleam the tears of the animated thing
came together and became waters
when water swelled to overflow it became lakes, rivers and seas
and when air became heavier it raised itself to a wind,
and when wind passed through the surface of earth
it turned into vales, hills and clouds
life began with great struggles and confirmed by quickening
in the darkness and echoing heartrending cry, though grew while calling the sea
a mother and the mountain a father, and conceived meaning of lots of phenomena:
why the rivers flow and clouds drift, dews on the grasses
change into fogs and finally dissipate,
the stars come to visit the lakes
and kiss to form ripples at night
the seed of arrogance grew in the heart of this creature
spreading rapidly among the creatures living in the surface of the earth
and when his arrogance reached to the heaven, the creatures threw stones
in the seas, set fires on mountains, while boasting with those words:
“we conquered world, the world is under our feet”
hence the earth surged by a raging water,
and the windstorm rose to shake the rocks in the mountains violently
nonetheless, the creature did not introspect
his own detestable deeds but continuously acted
in a lordly manner throwing his chest out as before,
though enjoying saying this favorite phrase:
“this age is a corrupted age! this age is a degenerate age!”
Villanelle: Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
for the author - male or female, prince or pauper, playboy or priest - of the
THIRUKKURAL*, the reputed "bible" of the Tamils, the principal Dravidian race credited with having engendered the first literary heritage of the Indian sub-continent. Only one thing might be said of him with certitude:
he tamed the language like none other and was more alive to his "times" and his literary, inter-personal, romantic, religio-philosophical and political environment than any prince, philosopher or priest ever since. In my view, whoever he may have been, he was an unjustifiably oppressed individual like King Wen who wrote the judgments on the hexagrams and provided the explanations of their images and the Later Heaven arrangement of the Yi Jing, the Canon of Change.
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Words come asunder blown on road side-table
Debris of wanton collisions intone
Long-gone ages singe the stylo his work shone
Who knows what diamond crumbs spill disable
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Sans case-endings morphemes participial pun
Regimented feet in seven steps enable
Debris of wanton collisions intone
Who confined meaning in drumbeat phoneme moan
Lest envy upper-caste knowledge expose enable
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
None know who he was nor what age saw he sun
Savants pat cheeks his lines to render readable
Debris of wanton collisions intone
While lordly conferees seek to feather nests own
His sculpted riddles tease meaning and jumble
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Debris of wanton collisions intone
* Thiru=Sacred; KURAL, meaning "short" or epigrammatic composition in the form of couplets (1330: ten kurals allotted to each topic in three books with a short introduction), composed and ordered according to the rules of a strict classical prosodical pattern: the "venba" metre while adhering to complex rhetorical features, such as, alliteration, assonance, initial-rhymes and ellipses. The author was known as Thiru-VALLUVAR. One of the earliest commentaries on the Kural, still extant, was made by a Tamil scholar PARIMELALAKAR during the 13th century.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Tentative rose thorns graze my skin as I push through the plant-walled garden
They neither break skin nor draw those secret white lines across it
Lillies of the valley wonder where their valley has gone when they realise they are on
flat land
Their delicate white petals stare at the clouds which gather like ants to an amberule of honey
I can feel the rain on the air, it clothes me in a heavy gown of foreboding and expectation
The birds who once called across the garden to their avian lovers silently flutter home
In the tall birches and oaks and evergreens, in the bright aboreal verendace, their world
I walk through a stream which has trickled and will trickle for ages,
patiently it cuts away the tarnished granite bed, deeper and deeper,
Tiny frogs leap away in instinctive terror, my feet suddenly transformed into evil monsters,
and as I step out of the stream bed, I wonder where all the butterflies have gone when I
see a moth
With spanning black wings as dark as night, edged with gold as bright as the sun,
its antennae are feathery and magnificently plume the insect's noble head, a crown above
all crowns,
Its six legs are carried tightly under its richly-furred black body, little dagger-glows
sheathed,
I reach out a hand as tentative as the rose thorns, and the moth plays with me,
taunting me with its nocturnal majesty, with its iridescent wings, with its reflective eyes,
To my eternal satisfaction the lordly moth alights upon my fingers,
and I wince as its claws grip my tightly, it folds in its wings, its royal robes of office,
The golden filligree glitters and the soft pixie dust all moths carry falls unnoticed onto
my hand,
Body quivering, I see the unmistakable mark across its elegant wing-shape;
death's head, a human skull, remnant of a past life,
laughing at me in my folly,
the lordly insect takes flight, leaving my with the sliently roses, the apathetic lillies,
the meandering stream, to contemplate the incomprehensible
and I breathe in the dust of the moth,
forgetting butterflies had ever existed, for the death's head
rules the secret garden day and night
and now I understand these things,
which only the whispered languages of the garden could say.
WEATHER SAILS
What if the clouds themselves were like sails of a giant
Heavenly ship, its masts the very shafts of ethereal light
Cascading from Nirvana itself, white powders weather wings,
Guiding this planetary blue worlds atmosphere, in the ocean
Of a vast universal black sea, amongst the elliptical timeless tides,
Of the divine!
Swaying to the shift, shifting to the sway, angelic thin veils melting,
Vaporizing into nothingness, moistures wind catchers these waves
Of the untamable storm, called the outer stratosphere,
God’s bluish green vessel, a bio-sphere of natural miracles!
Lightning’s lordly finger prints as a masterpieces maker,
Attempts to touch his living masterwork of brilliance,
And echoing with thunder’s joyous sounding, as his pleasures
Reply!
Aft to the sterns guiding wheel, this captain of the mortal soul
Guides all hands aboard through our lives perfect storm,
No matter the hellish tides challenges, the torrents currents
Of reality to be overcame, within the faithful hearts of
Spiritual flame, no lantern light could be more prevalent
Then our fathers on high!
Oh let the lost find their way homewards, by the lighthouse
Of the everlasting, allow the bright beams of glory’s shine,
To protect these sailors of the sinful, and finally be embraced
By his unfathomable love for his fallen children!
Dropped is the anchor of faith, amongst the stars blazing
In the translucent skies, as his moon shield sparkles in
Illuminance elegance, dancing across the aquatic lunar stream
Beneath!
What if the clouds themselves were like sails of a giant
Heavenly ship, its masts the very shafts of ethereal light
Cascading from Nirvana itself, white powders weather wings,
Guiding this planetary blue worlds atmosphere, in the ocean
Of a vast universal black sea, amongst the elliptical timeless tides,
Of the divine!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO: POET DESTROYER, VERA DUGGAN, MYSTIC ROSE
For these women of inspiration that I owe so much too,
To my sisters of the heart, whom have kept me grounded at times,
Yet have allowed me to spread my wings of inspiration to soar!
Late at night, in the secret chamber far apart
A valiant knight, stands there, put his hand on his heart:
“With this ring, I plight unto thee my troth till death!”
She’s slumbering, the damsel in distress. Her breath
Divinely lovely, her rosy lips, they beguile
The fiery lordly, leave him, with the sweetest guile.
Deep within his bosom, dulcet sounds beat quicker,
Lambent eyes blossom, red face betrays his fever:
“Fair lady, why sleepest thou? Rise out of thy sleep
O deary, cast me not away, nor let me weep.
Awake thee, beauteous maiden! Awake! Arise!
I prithee, let me see thine orbs, before sunrise!
In woe and pain, I suffer from like no other.
I ache all o'er again, and I can no longer
Tarry here, abashèd by thy fleshly body.
Harken ere I succumb to thy charming beauty…”
After months of waiting, I kneel beside the bed
And fingering, at the blonde hair about thine head:
“Princess, how dark the darkness of Abyss must be…
Blessed be my last favor! In love with none but thee”
Nigh to thy visage, my late outrage to the realm;
—Thy lips I kiss for ages!—Into Heaven’s whelms,
I fall apace… How long this fantasia will last?
Till my Grace behold mine eyes, for a long time past.
In mine arms, thou shall awake or remain this way!
If thou fallest under the charm, avarice pays…
From ecstasy to agony—The deathly kiss—
There rests no heavier calamity, than this…
Countless minutes goes by, since my lips are on thine
Thus, I die! In death my lips thou sealest… decline…
But I care not… Thou art mine! How happy I am!
Thy tongue is so hot… what a delectable jam…
My lips are sealèd on thine!—Sempiternal kiss!—
On the morrow, after and beyond, I beseech:
“Fantasy not about the others! I’ll never
Let them slake their thirst, drink thine heavenly water…
Thy sole lover I am! Forever and ever!
And ‘till never sever, our link for another.”
I wish that somewhere, in the far distant future
I could meet with her, go back on an adventure.
My shape may change may be, but be sure, by my troth:
“My love will never cease to be.” I pray for both…
From The Heart To The Cross
The burden to carry on a journey slated,
Weighs heavily on an outcome known fated.
When faith is the belief in hope for deliverance
Where humanity’s destiny hangs in the balance.
In mirrors dwell prisoners angst desperate rot,
To lay their heads in the bosom of Madonna.
One way leads to the Saviour, the other does not.
Be it by choice, from the heart to the cross.
Comfort and joy. God will provide sanctuary:
The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
Though Mary mourns, her anguish is temporary.
Unbelievers throw stones, yet His Word lives on.
His last hour on Golgotha shook civilization.
Angels triumphantly trumpeted The Lord’s salvation.
A madman with hammer thrashes the Pietà 1
To eradicate the sculpture from history,
That Michelangelo chiseled out of Carrara marble, 2
Seating the Madonna larger and profanely stronger,
Cradling Jesus, whose appearance projects frailty.
As if having been chastised for allowing crucifixion.
A mollification for theological credence,
Unreinforced nor inspired by biblical writings.
By appeasement, the sculptor admits conspiracy
With dogma, misrepresenting Christ to the living.
Mary’s demure as she looks upon the contorted figure,
Supports the illusion of her lordly stature.
***
Notes:
1) Pietà: The ‘Pietà’ is a sculpture by Michelangelo (1475-1564) depicting the Madonna cradling Jesus after His crucifixion. The sculpture was completed in 1500 and is housed in St. Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City, Italy.
On May 21, 1972, an Australian citizen vandalized the Pietà with a geologist’s hammer. The individual was not charged with any criminal offence but was hospitalized in Italy for two years; and then released and deported back to Australia.
2) Carrara marble: Carrara marble is stone quarried in Carrara, Tuscany, Italy. The three most common types of Italian marble are Carrara, Calcutta, and Statuary (aka Statuario). Michelangelo is reported to have said that this was the most ‘perfect’ block of stone he ever used.
Almost always, as additional allurements arrive, ask as a Being...
By better borne behests become best Causes ?
Can causes create concise concepts Diligently ?
Do doers do decidedly dumb doldrums Ever ?
Each eek echoes egotistical efforts enduring Familiarity...
Faith fathers forgiveness for flaunting fabled Gifts.
Gasps give great grief, growing gruesome Hatreds...
Hasn't humanity had hurt hearts hung Innocently ?
Is insistence in increasing irritation inevitably incongruous Justice ?
Jimson jars...jitters...joggles...jolts...just jocose jurisprudence' Knell.
Kerfuffle kin, kickshaw kept ken, kindly knaves kneading Lamentations...
Leaving love's loaves, lordly lotharios, looking like lowlifes Made.
Marking more madmen mere moronic monsters meting mayhem Nearby.
Now, not never, nab needed nerves, nurture nasturtium near Openness !
Once only one, ordained our ostracism, outrage outdone on overwrought Plight.
Perhaps pride precludes passable patience, posing portentous prolapse Quickly !
Quiet quandaries, quarrelsome qualms, quivering quixotic quirks Resplendent...
Reaching relapse, revolving recidivism, reconstructed reflective reform Seen !
Searching secretive states, seemingly simple, sincere serenity sought Through...
Tender tears, touching together to total tympanic transformation Unjust.
Unique union...unimportant, unbending, unpopular, unless universal Veracity !
Verbose verbalism, vertical vignettes verify vital victory Won.
When written with wit...watershed words work wonderful Xerography !
Xyloid xylography, xeroxed xeno X, Yet...
Yesterday's youth, yowled yummy young yips Zanily !
Zeitgeist, zombie zealots zapping zonked zingers...Away !!
A mind is something not content
with stimulus-response,
but must go flying off
into the never lands
to see if they are there...
and when reporting back,
at best is greeted with a stare
of incredulity.
But minds are stubborn things
that go on processing
both truth and doubt,
and greeting fantasy as friend enough
to squeeze it, probe it,
love it with a clinical devotion
plain romance would never understand.
Of such a love as this is born the light
that penetrates both time and space
and bounces back into the consciousness
of humankind and feisty lean bacteria
forever bound in brotherhood.
Pride is the casualty.
The idiot savant may lead
the Hawkings of the world
into the wondrous places,
those diaphanous and misty islands
that their instruments could not disclose,
that were in fact not even there
until he thought of them
and like a painter, sketched the trees,
perfumed the air,
and filled the surface crown
with many-colored animals
never seen before—
and then with idiot delight
might whisk it all away
before their eyes.
Not the stuff of fantasy, all this.
We would endorse the cry of unity,
accept the god of miracles,
the triumph of a science
leaping past his lordly heels,
but this? To heal the sick
by thinking back before their birth?
To marry the millenia ahead
with history?
It is a bigger field on which we play,
too much to entertain the day
with less than breathless wonderment—
to see beyond the window
where the scientist and God
rest finally from all the work
that they have done.
~
*In order to fully understand this relatively simple
poem, it is necessary to read "The Field" by Lynne
McTaggart. Both the evidence and the speculation
that she presents, is truly mind-boggling.
Here…the pen
there the paper
whiter than snow
yesterday laid upon the sill of my laughter
overturning my frown
like a table in the house of God and goodness
Crying JOY!
till ...Be not alive with joy! whispers ....find solace in the crime of wishful sadness….because joy will only...don't you see ...
it flows around you in swirls like a chiffon dress
taken from the closet of the owner of the house you clean
you drape it across your bent shoulders and become
Cinderella…transformed in twinkles and sparkling fairy dust
born anew….in transcendence
Ethereal waves flow about you as you swirl the room
a mystical band strikes up lovely lordly notes
and a car door slams shut
the house of cards falls from your fingertips to the marble tiles…
which do not
somehow turn into the safe congoleum
of your own modest kitchen
You dash and smash the dress back into the closet
crushed
reality is not like the movies
paper is sullied by the ink
and your smile ...by guilt
You take up your magic wand
return to scrubbing the toilet bowl
bashful and again bowed before the
reflection in the gold knobbed vanity
but still in angelic rebuttal... the tinkle...the wondrous unearthly voice
inside cries
Joy...Joy...Joy
It doesn’t matter if I ruined myself from intoxication,
even for a moment, as long as I can get drunk from
the wine named arrogance.
Although arrogance is the robe so colorful
that it blinds ordinary man accustomed only to a quiet color
and it’s conspicuous vividness stunning onlookers and plumps down
to become a lame, doesn’t matter its consequence, I would like to wear the robe of arrogance because most people think not only that it’s proper to honor and admire arrogant one but even respect, awe and consider him holy.
Because the audience overly admires arrogant one,
speak highly of his every movement and daily activities,
moreover, audience welcomes the arrogant one with thunderous hand-clapping, jump up and down with cry in excitement and even tear impressed by his lordliness.
The audience praises arrogant one from the heart with great admiration, uttering, he is a broad-minded noble with a high-spirited appearance that only strong one can display, pure like clear dew reflecting early morning sun-ray, and more.
Nevertheless, you shouldn’t have hatred for the arrogant one because
he is a snob just like the emperor* who struts on the daylight way
surrounded by his dignified chamberlains, wearing priceless silken gown
trimmed and woven with gold threads and uniquely tailored for him.
I wonder why I have a keen desire for glorified moments
like an arrogant one, and behave in a lordly manner
intoxicated by wine of arrogance though I know
the cost of pomposity very well indeed.
*ref: Hans Christian Andersen’s the Emperor’s New Clothes