Long Meridians Poems
Long Meridians Poems. Below are the most popular long Meridians by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Meridians poems by poem length and keyword.
Il mito di una statua da giardino presso il Golfo di Napoli
Ballad Written By: Catullus Propertius
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The stoic stance
she stands
in the gardens of
Dorking
a statue carved to impress
her beauty the poet
writers mystery
a story of love and regret
a sexton the sailor carry's
to the shore she bathe
beneath the sun
he wishes for the sweetness
of oranges
for which til then
he never had none.
Arancia Rossa di Sicilia
come back to Surrentio
the mermaid sings her song
Carnival of Ivrea
she greets men
the charm of a Meridians voice
Napulitano Ballads and songs
the sweetness of the
Napulitano Orange
Sweet the nights of
natural pool of
Bagni della Regina
She swam in the waters there
and became a statue
in the garden that sings
seven days a week... the intervals in between
can shape twilight into scented ambrosia
and turn noontime to boiled potion of tan,
dusk smears the sky darkening bronze
while an eve, a textured chameleon...
the shrill and serenity of minutes
can blaze the air with time's ecstasy
or numb the splintered liver of pain's regret.
are these days that pour of subway’s sweat,
then emboss night with a vault
of celibate, white stars? coffee and newspaper
expire as the hours dwindle into clockwork ticks.
and hands cradle an endless space
bathed in the moist kiss of dawnbreak
floating on a veil graced by
life's alchemy, unbidden...
seven days a week: a deep hole lost
in a melee between men and beasts,
defining not the terms and conditions
of human traces that linger or stain
the lines of meridians blending haste with
pace?
there are no answers,
i just wade like a child becoming a fetus
without all these adult specs rendering
white stars,celibate...
in seven days a week.
Space and Time Contest
new poem
use of small caps is intentional
2/12/2014
With compass and sextant, paper and ink,
Bungaree, Nanbaree, Matthew and George
and a cat and a crew were at sea.
They went sailing and sailing, around and around
in Eighteen Hundred and Three.
The Investigator’s navigator calculated space
by meridians and parallels to draw Australia’s place.
With Tasmania as an island, and Bass Strait in between,
he mapped the coastal outlines with ink like lines of lace.
On an island east of Africa, where dodos used to roam,
he wrote a book, and drew more maps, in prison, far from home.
He’d travelled as a scientist; he’d met Frenchman, Baudin,
but, here to mend a leaking boat, they would not let him go.
The governor of the Isle de France let pirates prowl the sea,
but arrested Matthew Flinders as a spy and enemy.
Around Good Hope, after the siege -
from Mauritius, now British (not French),
back to London, sailed Matthew Flinders,
not knowing his days were brief.
Map-maker, map-maker, making a map,
right ’round Australia, and finally back.
Map-maker, map-maker, thanks for the book,
of Terra Australis and the journeys you took.
(The supernova observed from
Earth in 1572 was a major event
in human thought, because if
stars could explode, then they
couldn't be eternal lamps,
hung out by God.)
The cold stars glimmered
where they hung
in their accustomed places
on the underside of heaven.
The imperceptible gavotte
proceeded up aloft:
those little silver lamps,
dipping or climbing,
went about their business
oblivious of human time.
A scholar of the firmament,
incurious, unthrilled,
at ease with the inevitable,
the trueness of meridians,
stared up, unflinching.
The milky smudge of Cassiopeia
swam into his lens's narrow field,
and our student of the permanent now saw
that which he knew he could not see.
It caused no greater shock
than a snarl of irritation.
We always miss the moment.
The quiet glory of that tiny cloud
of far-off starstuff
marked the noiseless passing
of some unknowable sun.
And though the watcher did not know,
he was party, too,
to a monumental dying.
Acupuncture
A local acupuncturist could not conceive,
Of why, about acupuncture, I did not believe.
My first thought was, where do I begin?
So I looked at her with a wide grin,
And started a monologue I’d given before,
And usually ends with their anger galore.
Chinese, Japanese, Viet Namese or Thai?
They’re all quite different and decry,
All the others as dziggetai.
The meridians are fake, they do not exist.
Acupuncturists playing the fantasist.
But here’s the point, this is the home run.
Toothpicks work and the job gets well done.
Sham acupuncture it’s called and it works just as well,
As regular acupuncture and this should tell,
You just how fake acupuncture really is.
But practitioners still must support their biz.
So ask them of papers published that show,
Definite effects of this treatment they know.
Blank is all you ever get.
There are no studies as of yet.
They’ll always say more research is needed.
But nothing ever comes. It’s always defeated.
Every follow-up that tightens the protocol,
Negative results are all that befall.
Ancient? Not really. Look what they used.
There were no needles and now you’re confused.
You can find them online and they’re actually blades.
They were bleeding people, like all medical trades.
Of course, love has preferences:
I prefer eyes sort of like, yours.
Misty at times,
And at others, deeply dark and
Startlingly invasive – no point
In trying to keep secrets from such
Penetrating eyes. Then there are those
Moments of unsettling absence. I attempt
Vainly to enter your silence, gain needed
Access to mysterious inner parts kept
From me...I try to cross the meridians
Keeping souls necessarily private, where
One meditates and prays in solemnity. My need to
For safe familiarity, juxtaposed with
With strange planets and alien landscapes
Each mortal possesses and senses to
Sacredly guard. Yet I track your disturbing
Aloofness. As a hound on the scent. Into
Whirlpools of privacy where no uninvited
Sojourner has right to venture. No one
Should attempt to know another that entirely,
That consuming. Yes, love has preferences. Like
Your dainty bell ears, and adorable ski nose --
And very large feet~ all for the next poem.
in my foolish quest for scrambled words,
your inspiration becomes a heady sensation
carrying me gently from the troubled traffic
of my desecrated hours, as if i were entering
under the skins of our candle lights: bringing me
to embers of moments terribly free, like you..
and there, we become weightless on our
open map---the meridians and continents
passing through the mists of time and space,
oh how my lips and this my striped soul
adore you: wandering effortlessly on
the terraces of our own love, war and peace.
~
often, at daytime, at night call when stars
seem to cover their cherubic faces
and i feel the throb of my faltering heart,
your company i embrace, telling me
how to live...as our sheets grasp in surrender;
my tender moans start to bleed...
then i become one with your skin, bones,
and hands: through sips of wine and tea,
i have to say today and after:
~” Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things…” ~
i feel i am everywhere; i think of how many
i can be with our candles and songs.
........
*excepts from Pablo Neruda’s “ Here I Love You”
* please allow use of small caps
........ .. .........
Poem for Frank H.'s Best Contest
by nette onclaud