Long Poem Topics

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abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
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america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
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chocolate christian
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color columbus day
community computer
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cousin cowboy
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culture cute love
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death death of a friend
december dedication
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divorce dog
dream drink
drug earth
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education emo
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endurance engagement
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eve evil
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farewell farm
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fear february
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fire firework
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football for children
for her for him
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fruit fun
funeral funny
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games garden
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girl girlfriend
giving god
golf good friday
good morning good night
goodbye gospel
gothic graduate
graduation grandchild
granddaughter grandfather
grandmother grandparents
grandson grave
green grief
growing up growth
guitar hair
halloween happiness
happy happy birthday
hate health
heart heartbreak
heartbroken heaven
hello hero
high school hilarious
hindi hip hop
history hockey
holiday holocaust
home homework
hope horror
horse house
how i feel howl
humanity humor
humorous hurt
husband hyperbole
i am i love you
i miss you identity
image imagery
imagination immigration
independence day innocence
insect inspiration
inspirational integrity
international internet
introspection ireland
irony islamic
january jealousy
jesus jewish
jobs journey
joy judgement
july june
kid kindergarten
kiss language
leadership leaving
life light
little sister london
loneliness lonely
longing loss
lost lost love
love love hurts
lust lyric
magic malayalam
marathi march
marriage math
may me
meaningful memorial day
memory men
mental illness mentor
metaphor metrical tale
middle school military
miracle mirror
miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
morning mother
mother daughter mother son
mothers day motivation
mountains moving on
mum murder
muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
mythology name
native american natural disasters
nature new year
new years day new york
nice niece
night nonsense
nostalgia november
nursery rhyme obituary
ocean october
old onomatopoeia
pain paradise
parents paris
parody pashto
passion patriotic
peace people
perspective pets
philosophy places
planet poems
poetess poetry
poets political
pollution poverty
power prayer
prejudice preschool
presidents day pride
princess prison
proposal psychological
purple quinceanera
race racism
rain rainbow
rainforest rap
raven recovery from
red relationship
religion religious
remember remembrance day
repetition retirement
riddle rights
river romance
romantic rose
roses are red rude
sad sad love
satire scary
school science
science fiction sea
seasons self
senses sensual
september sexy
sick silence
silly silver
simile simple
sin sister
sky slam
slavery sleep
smart smile
snow soccer
social society
softball soldier
solitude sometimes
son song
sorrow sorry
soulmate sound
space spanish
spiritual spoken word
sports spring
star stars
storm strength
stress student
success suicide
summer sun
sunset sunshine
surreal sweet
symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
teachers day technology
teen teenage
thank you thanks
thanksgiving thanksgiving day
tiger time
today together
travel tree
tribute true love
trust truth
universe uplifting
urban urdu
usa vacation
valentines day vanity
veterans day violence
visionary vogon
voice volleyball
voyage war
water weather
wedding wife
wind wine
winter wisdom
woman women
word play words
work world
world war i world war ii
write writing
yellow youth

Long Metaphor Poems

Long Metaphor Poems. Below are the most popular long Metaphor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Metaphor poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details

The Old Dark House

The Old Dark House

This tale of “The Old Dark House” is one that’s replete with a
most horrid sense of pure evil and macabre, and is worth being
retold each year during the deep-dark hours of All Hallows’ Eve
before the chime of midnight, when the thin veil separating the
land of the living and the dead momentarily dissolves, bringing
both worlds together until the break of dawn.

Beware of this house’s mythical and ethereal presence in the
shadow dreams of the innocent, and be forewarned to never
conjure its image in your unconscious mind. If so conjured,
The Old Dark House shall become an unending reality to the
innocent and uninformed, and on All Hallows’ Eve, the evil
“Demons of Hell” shall come for your very soul!  

The Old Dark House is one that is bathed and cursed in utter
hellfire and damnation by Lucifer himself. It’s one that creeps a
chill and frozen reminder into the very frame of its nasty, putrid
structure. It shall guarantee you the worst possible nightmares as
your very soul cries in agony and pleads unrelentingly for mercy!

Your nightmares are, in turn, amplified and born into the very
structure of this house with ivy creeping as you palpably sense
the wretched ice-cold fingers of Hell opening the doors to the
cavernous basement were evil shadows of goblins, ghosts,
ghouls, vampires, and werewolves parade openly from past lives.

Everyone suffering the curse of the damned was captured here
when they visited, becoming prisoners to the darkness of true evil,
far away from the light, goodness, and eternal mercy of Almighty
God Himself.

Six generations of my family actually dwelled beneath the rafters
of The Old Dark House where demonic forces were constantly in
play—as hot sparks burned the tongues of lost souls who cried in
agony, and their world would enter the vortex of darkness whilst
blood-curdling screams could be distinctly heard during the night
on All Hallows’ Eve. Ghostly images would appear out of nowhere
supported by the frightening ferocity of Lucifer who is the true dark
presence and ultimate tempter of mankind!

The horror I felt as a young boy trapped in this existence is truly
unimaginable. The image of The Old Dark House still haunts my
adult consciousness, even today, as I would shudder in the cold
night-sweat of sleep to purge its eternal presence from my mind!

Cruel pictures adorn the hell-hole hall of imagination as a gruesome
and unbelievable power underneath wields its vice-grip of hideous
words, whispering in the coldest of ice without the living being able
to breathe in a cloud of mercy and forgiveness, within an ancient
language of evil and evil-doings that twist the shape of words to
suit one’s human fears and cold shivers!

I still don’t understand the full measure of things being lost in this
dark pit of Hell in The Old Dark House. It’s a place that’s devoid
of human meaning and worth as shrunken heads are disembodied!
I hold on to what remains of a past shame, hovering high in the air
as unclean spirits of a crooked vision-circle wander aimlessly as a
Blind Sheppard leads our lost souls to the depressing Dark Land of
Nowhere and Nothingness!

Every October as the full moon rises high in the dark-sky evening,
a ritual fire is set by a local coven of witches to celebrate the advent
of All Hallows’ Eve. These witches know well the power and evil of
The Old Dark House. Their burnt offerings and black magic spells
echo hauntingly as Hell’s own fury is unearthed, challenging all
things virtuous in mankind’s existence and in God’s world of beauty,
hope, kindness, and light.

These evil images of black magic and witchcraft haunted my sleep
entire. I couldn’t sleep at all before dawn. I constantly sense now
an awakening madness in my soul, as if it comes from hidden graves
yet to be uncovered. Images and bad memories of The Old Dark House
push me now toward the opening of unknown tombs. I can actually
now smell Death’s Sulphur-burnt flesh!

Doors begin to rustle behind me as I hear loud footsteps of a pin
echoing deep in my mind. The echo shatters any illusions I have
of human sanity and forgiveness. I feel the sheer horror and begin
suffocating as the stale air is trapped in each breath I take!  

I sit up now—immediately confused, looking directly at a lonely
and empty Black Void that goes on and on and on—to infinity!

Cell doors in the house basement were always closed tight with
rusted iron links bound by heavy chains. As a poor child alone in
this house with other condemned children, there were nice rooms
upstairs that were always barred and shut to us as we suffered in
the filthy basement below. In Lucifer’s Hell!

I recall now too, in my memory, a gallery of special portraits in
The Old Dark House, which formed a ghastly mosaic of pure evil.
These portraits were of key human disciples of Lucifer who had served
him well through the ages. All of these images were grotesque and evil
when taken as a whole.

What did I learn? Evil is what Evil is! And Evil does what Evil does!

I’m free now from the eternal curse of The Old Dark House. I escaped
this mansion of the macabre as a young man and found my soul path
to Almighty God and stepped into His holy light of forgiveness and
redemption! 

As a very old man now, I sleep and dream a lot. Usually my dreams, 
thank goodness, are pleasant as I draw toward the end of my mortal
existence here on earth.

Yet, despite all the good things in my life now, during October of
each year, as All Hallows’ Eve cometh closer in the deep recesses
of my mind—I remember clearly that the ground floor of The Old
Dark House always had these frigid-cold wind gusts that spoke 
chillingly to one’s very soul. As young kids we would run upstairs
in this evil house to hear the “Demons of the Night” moan and cry!

Old Hob always had a way to speak to all of us as kids in His House!

Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid, and Gary Bateman
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
September 7, 2016 (Narrative)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Sunshine Smile | Details

- The Old Dark House -


This tale of “The Old Dark House” is one that’s replete with a
most horrid sense of pure evil and macabre, and is worth being
retold each year during the deep-dark hours of All Hallows’ Eve
before the chime of midnight, when the thin veil separating the
land of the living and the dead momentarily dissolves, bringing
both worlds together until the break of dawn.

Beware of this house’s mythical and ethereal presence in the
shadow dreams of the innocent, and be forewarned to never
conjure its image in your unconscious mind. If so conjured,
The Old Dark House shall become an unending reality to the
innocent and uninformed, and on All Hallows’ Eve, the evil
“Demons of Hell” shall come for your very soul!  

The Old Dark House is one that is bathed and cursed in utter
hellfire and damnation by Lucifer himself. It’s one that creeps a
chill and frozen reminder into the very frame of its nasty, putrid
structure. It shall guarantee you the worst possible nightmares as
your very soul cries in agony and pleads unrelentingly for mercy!

Your nightmares are, in turn, amplified and born into the very
structure of this house with ivy creeping as you palpably sense
the wretched ice-cold fingers of Hell opening the doors to the
cavernous basement were evil shadows of goblins, ghosts,
ghouls, vampires, and werewolves parade openly from past lives.

Everyone suffering the curse of the damned was captured here
when they visited, becoming prisoners to the darkness of true evil,
far away from the light, goodness, and eternal mercy of Almighty
God Himself.

Six generations of my family actually dwelled beneath the rafters
of The Old Dark House where demonic forces were constantly in
play—as hot sparks burned the tongues of lost souls who cried in
agony, and their world would enter the vortex of darkness whilst
blood-curdling screams could be distinctly heard during the night
on All Hallows’ Eve. Ghostly images would appear out of nowhere
supported by the frightening ferocity of Lucifer who is the true dark
presence and ultimate tempter of mankind!

The horror I felt as a young boy trapped in this existence is truly
unimaginable. The image of The Old Dark House still haunts my
adult consciousness, even today, as I would shudder in the cold
night-sweat of sleep to purge its eternal presence from my mind!

Cruel pictures adorn the hell-hole hall of imagination as a gruesome
and unbelievable power underneath wields its vice-grip of hideous
words, whispering in the coldest of ice without the living being able
to breathe in a cloud of mercy and forgiveness, within an ancient
language of evil and evil-doings that twist the shape of words to
suit one’s human fears and cold shivers!

I still don’t understand the full measure of things being lost in this
dark pit of Hell in The Old Dark House. It’s a place that’s devoid
of human meaning and worth as shrunken heads are disembodied!
I hold on to what remains of a past shame, hovering high in the air
as unclean spirits of a crooked vision-circle wander aimlessly as a
Blind Sheppard leads our lost souls to the depressing Dark Land of
Nowhere and Nothingness!

Every October as the full moon rises high in the dark-sky evening,
a ritual fire is set by a local coven of witches to celebrate the advent
of All Hallows’ Eve. These witches know well the power and evil of
The Old Dark House. Their burnt offerings and black magic spells
echo hauntingly as Hell’s own fury is unearthed, challenging all
things virtuous in mankind’s existence and in God’s world of beauty,
hope, kindness, and light.

These evil images of black magic and witchcraft haunted my sleep
entire. I couldn’t sleep at all before dawn. I constantly sense now
an awakening madness in my soul, as if it comes from hidden graves
yet to be uncovered. Images and bad memories of The Old Dark House
push me now toward the opening of unknown tombs. I can actually
now smell Death’s Sulphur-burnt flesh!

Doors begin to rustle behind me as I hear loud footsteps of a pin
echoing deep in my mind. The echo shatters any illusions I have
of human sanity and forgiveness. I feel the sheer horror and begin
suffocating as the stale air is trapped in each breath I take!  

I sit up now—immediately confused, looking directly at a lonely
and empty Black Void that goes on and on and on—to infinity!

Cell doors in the house basement were always closed tight with
rusted iron links bound by heavy chains. As a poor child alone in
this house with other condemned children, there were nice rooms
upstairs that were always barred and shut to us as we suffered in
the filthy basement below. In Lucifer’s Hell!

I recall now too, in my memory, a gallery of special portraits in
The Old Dark House, which formed a ghastly mosaic of pure evil.
These portraits were of key human disciples of Lucifer who had served
him well through the ages. All of these images were grotesque and evil
when taken as a whole.

What did I learn? Evil is what Evil is! And Evil does what Evil does!

I’m free now from the eternal curse of The Old Dark House. I escaped
this mansion of the macabre as a young man and found my soul path
to Almighty God and stepped into His holy light of forgiveness and
redemption! 

As a very old man now, I sleep and dream a lot. Usually my dreams, 
thank goodness, are pleasant as I draw toward the end of my mortal
existence here on earth.

Yet, despite all the good things in my life now, during October of
each year, as All Hallows’ Eve cometh closer in the deep recesses
of my mind—I remember clearly that the ground floor of The Old
Dark House always had these frigid-cold wind gusts that spoke 
chillingly to one’s very soul. As young kids we would run upstairs
in this evil house to hear the “Demons of the Night” moan and cry!

Old Hob always had a way to speak to all of us as kids in His House!








Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid, and Gary Bateman
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
September 7, 2016 (Narrative)

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Enlightening Systems

"Overcoming misleading [economic and political] metaphors
that are physically [naturally, ecosystemically, phylogenically] in [and of] 
your [ecological-organic embodied] brain
is never easy."
            George Lakoff, The Political Mind, p. 47

Unless, as Bucky Fulller so synergetically and consiliently,
Yang-confidently and Yin-confluently, suggests,
unless you provide a new and healthier cooperative analogical system.

EcoPolitical red conservative fundamentalist Orthodox exegetes
of Tradition-never-changes
speaking through EcoLogical ultra-violet PostModern radical embryonic Mother's EarthTribal restorative reverence
for ever great and even small therapeutic transitions
toward ecological ecopolitical healthy wealth.

Finding
reuncovering
remembering
religioning our ultra-violet ecopolitical model
of matriarchal embryonic diastatic revolutions
as routinely continuous therapeutic prayer.

Noticing
full health of resonant octaves
echoing reiterative wonder,
confluence,
contentment regaining nature-spirit nondual spectrals,
animating color frame climates,
defining divineYang-humaneYin double-boundary margins
co-investing
co-arising healthy-wealthy ecopolitical ultra-violet embodied outcomes.

Reverence
is our humane response
to LeftBrain surprise
rediscovering conservationist red-love
for blue organic-integral green living
ultra violetly.

Rainbow octaves of restoring nondual intent,
all we offer to burn on Patriarchal God's alter of Promise,
modeling ecopolitical cooperative returns
for double-fractal octaves of wise mystery
through which we utra-violetly live
our species' Common timeless Matriotic Paradise Dream.

Routine and ritual and religion
lead into and out of exegetical swamps.
Simple eisegetical resolutions
are only those cooperatively in-between
notnot pathological,
too red-too blue
co-arising ultra-violet purple-yellow fusion
conserving multiculturing polypathic progressive
revolutionary evolutions
of routine struggle with co-arising nonduality,
egoLeftRed Dominance revisiting ecoRightBlue EcoPolitical-Integral Depressions, DisInvestments, DeCompositions.

Earth is no longer red monocultural YangEgo Dominant,
vertical-only cosmic therapies.
Our PostConservationist ecological direction
remains both Patriot-Vertical
and Matriot-BiLateral Integrity;
thermodynamic balance of routine deep-religioning ritual,
Sabbath days and recreational Winter Moon Enlightening nights.

Our healthwealth Ta(0) Way
is always Yang-vertical Red
eco-passionate with Yin bicameral 
ultra-violet EcoPolitical Wisdom,
co-spiraling nature-spirit
co-messianic actors and speakers and therapeutic listeners,
digesters and producers of positive health
as at least notnot negative pathology
we conservationally climb red verticals
to progressively fall across ultra-violet collaterals,
spiraling ecological octave frequencies, co-incidental dialectals
emerge polypathic struggle with SacredPatriarchal Orthodoxology,
yet never struggling against Earth's Embryonic Matriarchal EcoSystems.

Routine uphill struggle,
RedYang/YinBlue CoEmbryonic Nurture
equipoised right-now balancing co-gravity,
routine multiculturing thermodynamic octaves
fusing within ultra-violet noticing
(-.-)0-squared fractal
as C-squared spirit of light's 4D linear form
as E-squared timeless dualdark nature-spirit
notnot exforming double-fractal DNA-octaves
4D PostModern RealTime prime(0)relational
health as also wealth
(0)soul-sum-core function.

Our multicultural idea of a chosen natural-ecological species
does not imply teleological preference
for a Yang-supremacist people
rooted in separatist Traditions
discriminating between and among multiculturally polypathic individuals,
tribes,
family branches
within history's regenerative fertile Tree
of DNA/RNA fractal-octave Solidarity.

AnthroYang Ego is not superior,
not chosen,
but co-invited by Elder RightBrain symbiotic Goddess
of Earth's restorative health-flow,
graced karmic song and dream dance
of nondual Yang/Yin
Red/Blue co-therapy
ultra-violet conserving-progress co-arising.

UltraViolet (0)sum centers
are not a healthwealth quality exclusive to ecologically languaged species;
rather co-mentoring
co-redeeming relationship 
between LeftBrain Dominant people
and embryonic RightBrain Matriarchal EnSpirited
Gaia-Earth.

Wisdom's polypathic exegesis
is Gaia-Earth's nutritional invitation 
of and for Patriarchal LeftBrain Man.
Wisdom Literature,
scripture of felt co-empathic experience,
narrates PatriarchalGod of History's approach
to incorporate His matriarchally nurtured regenerative-flow
toward timelessly CoMessianic post-modern EcoPoliticians,
a cooperative co-investment
rooted within our ecopolitical cathedral of Earth-Matriarch,
embryonic-diastatic Bodhisattva Gaia.

We are YangRed Gods of Comprehension
and YinBlue Goddesses of Wisdom together
ultra-violetly nutritional
sensing humanity's full octave multicultural climate health potential
through our bicameral polypathic fractal-mirror lenses,
full-octave DNA/RNA Solidarity,
ecological processing timeless P = N(NP)
YangRed/YinBlue-Green
YinYin ultraviolet WinWin,
Ego InterdependentRed Nature
co-spiraling revolutions with
Eco VirginalEmpty Blue Spirit,
ultra-violet routine,
full-octave conservationist-progressive rituals
dualdark
BlackHole (0)soul exformation binomials,
WinWin prime relational
eco-prayer assumption
of regenerative health evinced,
faith in hope octaves seen,
nutritionally smelled and tasted,
ingested
and interdependently produced
nature-spirit dynamic ritual;
secularLeft ecological
with sacredRight ecopolitical
RedNature and BlueSpirit
become ultra-violet WinWin EgoRed/EcoBlue climate health,
inside as outside,
spirit as nature,
ego as eco-integral,
as Earth below,
so MoonLight Paradise co-arising above.

Winter MoonLight of hibernation,
winner of ultra-violet conservationist progress,
Best Practice for modeling revolutionary polypathic co-enlightenment.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by liam mcdaid | Details

The Old Dark House

This tale of “The Old Dark House” is one that’s replete with a
most horrid sense of pure evil and macabre, and is worth being
retold each year during the deep-dark hours of All Hallows’ Eve
before the chime of midnight, when the thin veil separating the
land of the living and the dead momentarily dissolves, bringing
both worlds together until the break of dawn.

Beware of this house’s mythical and ethereal presence in the
shadow dreams of the innocent, and be forewarned to never
conjure its image in your unconscious mind. If so conjured,
The Old Dark House shall become an unending reality to the
innocent and uninformed, and on All Hallows’ Eve, the evil
“Demons of Hell” shall come for your very soul!  

The Old Dark House is one that is bathed and cursed in utter
hellfire and damnation by Lucifer himself. It’s one that creeps a
chill and frozen reminder into the very frame of its nasty, putrid
structure. It shall guarantee you the worst possible nightmares as
your very soul cries in agony and pleads unrelentingly for mercy!

Your nightmares are, in turn, amplified and born into the very
structure of this house with ivy creeping as you palpably sense
the wretched ice-cold fingers of Hell opening the doors to the
cavernous basement were evil shadows of goblins, ghosts,
ghouls, vampires, and werewolves parade openly from past lives.

Everyone suffering the curse of the damned was captured here
when they visited, becoming prisoners to the darkness of true evil,
far away from the light, goodness, and eternal mercy of Almighty
God Himself.

Six generations of my family actually dwelled beneath the rafters
of The Old Dark House where demonic forces were constantly in
play—as hot sparks burned the tongues of lost souls who cried in
agony, and their world would enter the vortex of darkness whilst
blood-curdling screams could be distinctly heard during the night
on All Hallows’ Eve. Ghostly images would appear out of nowhere
supported by the frightening ferocity of Lucifer who is the true dark
presence and ultimate tempter of mankind!

The horror I felt as a young boy trapped in this existence is truly
unimaginable. The image of The Old Dark House still haunts my
adult consciousness, even today, as I would shudder in the cold
night-sweat of sleep to purge its eternal presence from my mind!

Cruel pictures adorn the hell-hole hall of imagination as a gruesome
and unbelievable power underneath wields its vice-grip of hideous
words, whispering in the coldest of ice without the living being able
to breathe in a cloud of mercy and forgiveness, within an ancient
language of evil and evil-doings that twist the shape of words to
suit one’s human fears and cold shivers!

I still don’t understand the full measure of things being lost in this
dark pit of Hell in The Old Dark House. It’s a place that’s devoid
of human meaning and worth as shrunken heads are disembodied!
I hold on to what remains of a past shame, hovering high in the air
as unclean spirits of a crooked vision-circle wander aimlessly as a
Blind Sheppard leads our lost souls to the depressing Dark Land of
Nowhere and Nothingness!

Every October as the full moon rises high in the dark-sky evening,
a ritual fire is set by a local coven of witches to celebrate the advent
of All Hallows’ Eve. These witches know well the power and evil of
The Old Dark House. Their burnt offerings and black magic spells
echo hauntingly as Hell’s own fury is unearthed, challenging all
things virtuous in mankind’s existence and in God’s world of beauty,
hope, kindness, and light.

These evil images of black magic and witchcraft haunted my sleep
entire. I couldn’t sleep at all before dawn. I constantly sense now
an awakening madness in my soul, as if it comes from hidden graves
yet to be uncovered. Images and bad memories of The Old Dark House
push me now toward the opening of unknown tombs. I can actually
now smell Death’s Sulphur-burnt flesh!

Doors begin to rustle behind me as I hear loud footsteps of a pin
echoing deep in my mind. The echo shatters any illusions I have
of human sanity and forgiveness. I feel the sheer horror and begin
suffocating as the stale air is trapped in each breath I take!  

I sit up now—immediately confused, looking directly at a lonely
and empty Black Void that goes on and on and on—to infinity!

Cell doors in the house basement were always closed tight with
rusted iron links bound by heavy chains. As a poor child alone in
this house with other condemned children, there were nice rooms
upstairs that were always barred and shut to us as we suffered in
the filthy basement below. In Lucifer’s Hell!

I recall now too, in my memory, a gallery of special portraits in
The Old Dark House, which formed a ghastly mosaic of pure evil.
These portraits were of key human disciples of Lucifer who had served
him well through the ages. All of these images were grotesque and evil
when taken as a whole.

What did I learn? Evil is what Evil is! And Evil does what Evil does!

I’m free now from the eternal curse of The Old Dark House. I escaped
this mansion of the macabre as a young man and found my soul path
to Almighty God and stepped into His holy light of forgiveness and
redemption! 

As a very old man now, I sleep and dream a lot. Usually my dreams, 
thank goodness, are pleasant as I draw toward the end of my mortal
existence here on earth.

Yet, despite all the good things in my life now, during October of
each year, as All Hallows’ Eve cometh closer in the deep recesses
of my mind—I remember clearly that the ground floor of The Old
Dark House always had these frigid-cold wind gusts that spoke 
chillingly to one’s very soul. As young kids we would run upstairs
in this evil house to hear the “Demons of the Night” moan and cry!

Old Hob always had a way to speak to all of us as kids in His House!

Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid, and Gary Bateman
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
September 7, 2016 (Narrative)

Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by David Furlong | Details

The Frog Prince - Part 1

A funny frog called Mr Snog,
once lived beside a slimy bog,
he was a most peculiar fellow,
his hat was red, his boots were yellow,
his waistcoat was an olive green,
the strangest sight you’ve ever seen,
no matter where you’ve lived or been.      

This self-same frog, called Mr Snog
had woes of every catalogue.
To move forward he hopped backward,
making life extremely awkward.
His funny face with fretful frown
made him such a comic clown,
for his whole world was upside down.

Now once the frog, named Mr Snog,				
who lived beside the slimy bog,
had been a very different fellow,			
his boots then red, his hat was yellow.
A handsome prince of some renown,
upon his head a golden crown,
and nothing then was upside down.

For then his name, was not the same,
around his realm they would proclaim;
‘He is the bold, the great Prince Gons,		
whose fame is sung in many songs.’
In everything he did excel,
gallant, witty, brave as well,
until misfortune him befell.

Alas to say, in early May,
a witch had happened by his way.
She really was a hideous hag,
and nasty things were in her bag.
An eye of newt, a puppy’s tail,
six slimy slugs and half a snail,
some grizzly bits to make you quail.

Prince Gons had rode from his abode,			
to find this witch had blocked his road,		
‘Out of my way you wretched bag,
out of my way you ugly hag.
I am the bold, the great Prince Gons,		
whose fame is sung in many songs,
to whom this land around belongs.’		

With such disdain he did proclaim,
the exalted nature of his name!
He stared, he glared, he leered and peered,
upon that witch that looked so weird,
‘Out of my way, or you’ll pay dear.’
Yet not one word did cause her fear,
for being deaf, she could not hear.

But from his look she umbrage took,
and so that witch resolved to cook,
within her pot a fiendish brew,
to teach that prince a thing or two.
And setting out to cast a spell,
by calling demons out of hell,
she brewed a stew - with ghastly smell.

This stew she threw – it didn’t miss! –
all over Gons. Then with a kiss,
upon his face - oh what a joke -
she vanished in a puff of smoke!
Gons then had a nasty feeling,				
round and round the sky was wheeling,
sending all his senses reeling.

When he awoke, this self-same bloke,
could only make a feeble croak.
And to his horror he now found,
that everything had turned around,
shrunk to a frog, whose name was Snog,
who sat bemused within a bog,				
with woes of every catalogue.

Within this bog, there was a log,
and on this log, sat Mr Snog,
gazing mournfully at the sky,
eyeing all that passed him by.
From time to time he’d try to speak,
with feeble croak, so sad, so weak,
his life just then was really bleak.

When meaning ‘Yes’ - as you might guess -
was not the word he did express. 		
Instead of ‘Yes’, he would croak ‘No!’
All were confused and all said so,			
but if, perhaps, you knew him better,			
you could substitute each letter,
and then it really wouldn’t matter.

Moving backward, never forward,
made his life extremely awkward.
Now who could help him, who could tell
him, how to break that witch's spell?
He flopped around within the mire,
never growing one inch higher,
until a meeting did transpire.

One sunny day in early May,
a princess chanced to pass that way,
her hair was gold, her figure neat,
she walked upon such dainty feet.
that now squelched in the murky mire,
nearly ruining her attire,
her situation was quite dire.

Just for a laugh, she'd left the path,
to cut her journey quite in half,
she was sure it would be quicker,
she was sure that she was slicker,
than her nasty little brother,
who’d said, ‘Race you home to mother.’
-	How they hated one another!

While she was stuck within the muck,
bemoaning all her rotten luck,
She then perceived this curious fellow,		
whose hat was red and boots were yellow,
it was our hero Mr Snog,
every inch a funny frog,
sitting gormless on a log.

‘Help, help,’ she cried . ‘I'm terrified
I’m really lost, I need a guide,
to take me from this murky mire,
that's totally ruined my attire.
Please help me now. I'm sure you know,
how from this place, the way to go.’
But Snog, when meaning ‘Yes’, croaked ‘No!’.

She was confused, she was bemused,
that this odd creature had refused,
to help her in her hour of need.
'What can I say, how shall I plead?'
She pondered so, then filled with woe,			
wept, ‘Won’t you show the way to go?’
But Snog, whilst thinking ‘Yes’, croaked ‘No!’

‘I implore you, I'll adore you,
something, anything I’ll do for you.			
just name your price, I know the king,
he’ll give you almost everything.			
Oh please don't leave me in distress,
oh please don't leave me in this mess.’
Alas, our hero just croaked, ‘Yes!’

First she shivered, then she quivered,
then finally, she grew quite livid.
She screamed at this outrageous fellow,
whose hat was red and boots were yellow,
‘You are the most obnoxious frog,
to leave me helpless in this bog,
to wander aimless in the fog.’

Then on a whim, she grabbed a limb,
with all her strength she hurtled him,
high into the silvery sky,
wondering if this frog might fly.
But as she flipped him, her foot tripped,		
upon her back our princess tipped,
into the slimy mire she slipped.

Our hero, Snog, was quite agog,
for being airborne, for a frog,
was a most extraordinary feeling,
sending all his senses reeling.
The sky and earth became a blur;
falling now he did not miss her,
landing on her open kisser!

Now, as she fell, she’d given a yell,
which helped to break that witch's spell.
For when she kissed the hapless Snog,		
it changed him back from being a frog,
and to a prince he now returned,
who sat there looking unconcerned.
whilst in the slimy mire she squirmed.

Copyright © David Furlong | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Prizes for Ultimate Sacrifices - Part One

Prizes for Ultimate Sacrifices


    prizes for the abstemious  for abstinence  chastity ?
                 the countless occasions for love you let slip                                   

          prizes for stopping 
                                   smoking by yourself  
                                      drinking even Bordeaux
                                  munching on the meat of beasts
                                      crustacean flesh  fish  fowl or eggs                
                     
                      for honesty with oneself        
                 for commitment to lost causes
                                    the ability to see through their deviousnesses
                                and refraining to do anything about it at all
                           for helping them at one’s own peril                                                            
        for giving away what you direly need for yourself and your dependents
                   for not thinking of your own future just to bolster someone else’s
               for depriving yourself of the pleasures of the day
               when you can go out and buy them with what you got and still have enough leftover 

         for spending hours and hours every so often just listening to those who need to unburden themselves on you while you serve them aperitifs then coffee/tea and finally end up cooking dinner and bedding them down in your only bedroom while you may hardly stretch yourself out in amongst the books and things and boxes of files of unread drafts and such and wake in the middle of the night because the suffering soul behind the wall is moaning and tossing and apostrophising aloud in your bed calling your name out at every fiery phrase for all you know accusing you for all his troubles plus those of his friends near ones dear ones and/or dependents

      prizes for doing everything by yourself
          looking after yourself  cleaning the kitchen washing the clothes by hand doing the dishes in cold water showering cold to save on hot water repairing the car with spare unfit parts from the breakers learning languages all by yourself typing your own manuscripts and those of others starting your own journal and publishing others typing writing setting up photocopying designing printing binding marketing writing letters and posting them after long waits at queues attending to the plumbing redoing the parquet papering and/or painting your own but rented walls shopping on the cheap after hours and hours of comparing prices at different places keeping tabs on your dependents defending yourself against marauding civil servants politicos fighting your own legal battles after reading up on difficult incomprehensible legal texts writing dozens and dozens of letters before you take them to court and lose because the blasted bugger who represents you in the civil case makes it a point of holding back the essential documents which you know were never submitted to the judge although the list of documents exchanged lists them and you can’t check on the judge’s file because you are not a lawyer or solicitor legally constituted in the case and you need a lawyer to represent you in a civil case

      prizes for putting up with women
                                               who tell you they love you to distraction and would rather die than be parted from you even during the live-long day who vow by suttee but who use you make you marry them by piling lie upon lie present you with a baby not your own while they get pumped by others and let you share the slime the spittal and the shit in their system and the syphilitic rot that will gnaw at your spine years and years hence and leave you with the baby to bring up while they harrass you with complaints and cases about how you may be bringing him/her up with right of access charges rights which they never really exercise themselves and when the baby is no more a baby come around to collect the lad or lass as a crutch for their old age by telling him/her all the lies about how you let them down how you tortured and beat them up how you shat upon them how you made them slave day in and day out and to top it all didn’t bother even to shag them 

        prizes for keeping quiet and taking it all
    in without riposte without carping without being even rude in return
               for bearing with all the slithering over crimes they rob you cheat you  shit with your wives twist your children’s minds up into a multiple Turk’s head  commit missed murders against you and when you discover their intentions the criminals commit more crimes to cover it all up use misinformation as a superpanacea to lull themselves into believing they are innocent dogooders after all doing it for the patrie for the defence of their nation the raison d’Etat without making it known how you the victim without a proper background without a useful education without friends who would swear by you without the citizenship bestowing rights without the State any state on your side without the passport to secrete yourself away without a job without the money put away for the purpose of facing up to them these the faceless cowards hiding behind their secret societies their secret services their secret cabals their secret clubs schools lodges cafés cabinets centres yachts arts and crafts academies royal this and royal that my foot college unions parties and programmes                               

(Continued in Part Two: owing to length restrictions)

April 2, 1997 –From the collection : longhand notes (1999)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016 

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Gregory R Barden | Details

Autumn Atonement

Face to the sky,
Breath of the Caribbean
Woven with earthy Autumn,
Saturates the alveoli of my lungs,
Pouring raw impulses into the neurons of
My pleasure centers, so triggering a myriad of
Memories ... the demurring requiem to summer tide ...
The worries and joys of back-to-school preoccupations ...
Hours spent raking the crisp colors into sloppy pyramids, (only to
Ruin the chore with swan dives and somersaults) ... a pick-up game of
Football with the kids up the road, bones rattling with every jarring
Impact ... rekindled liaisons amidst a sea of oranges, reds,
Yellows, and browns ... sinking droughty teeth into
The juiciest of apples, born from the branch
In an algid tenth-month deluge ... the
Dreamy dance of costumed kids
Chasing the harvest moon
For a copious cache
Of candy treats.

The aroma of the air
Harkens all these thoughts
In an instant, and whisks me there
In a timeless surge of thoughts, then back
Again as quickly. Arms spread out to my sides
And hands dangling from the wrist as if on a cross ...
(A brief smile at that - crucified by self-pity - the irony is
Not lost on my odd sense of humor), eyelid-clasped face to the
Sky and perched barefoot on the rain-soaked deck, the tropical storm winds
Buffet me to-and-fro like a wooden puppet. I'm a child again, (it's not a long walk for me),
And I'm wishing THAT wish, the wish that if you concentrate hard enough,
And fill your heart full enough, and promise God sincerely enough,
That no matter WHAT you wish or desire, it WILL come
True ... you believe it with every fibre, and as long as
Your eyes are closed it might just as well have
Happened, (cuz like Schroedinger's cat,
Until something's observed to NOT
Be true, it's just as good
As the truth, right?).

But this time, instead
Of wishing for Santa Claus
To bring me that one present that
Seems outside the realm of possibility,
Or wishing for my bed to fly through the moonlit
Night sky, (electric blanket and all), or wishing for my
Family and pets to live forever, or wishing for that certain girl
To notice me at lunch or kiss me at the movies, or wishing for the
Pain behind my eye to go away, or wishing for the years to fly by so I can
Finally be called a "teenager", or wishing for the braces to be gone from my teeth
Forever, THIS time I'm wishing with all I am to be naught but the wind ...
Wishing to be dissolved into the very smallest, most insignificant
Particles possible ... wishing for the wind to sweep me up
As itself and carry me to nothingness ... wishing to
Become as much a part of the Earth as the
Earth itself ... wishing that I become
Nothing more than the aroma
In my senses, (a heavenly
Redolence born of the
Caribbean Sea.

Carried northward ...
Over the Atlantic and ashore
To mix wondrously with the crisp,
Earthy scents of Fall), as wispy and
Infinitesimal and oblivious, made only of energy
And nebulous matter, no conscious thought or care to
Tarry with ... no worries or expectations or responsibilities,
Yearning only for the sea whence it came. This wish is so pure, so
Visceral, so complete that it carries all my emotion with it, carries itself in
The water from my eyes that I squeeze out with the strength of my closed eyelids.
I am that child again, wishing with all I am, but my wish is not a childish, it
Is born of all of life's pains and losses and failures and yes, successes
Even, (for those successes are not of ME, they're of the wishes
Of others FOR me, and they are lies). But mostly they
Are born of YOU. You and all our words of the
Future, life together, music shared as
The same spirit, and the moon,
Wrapped around our skin, 
Our pale moon.

The same moon that
Baptized our love before we
Even knew what to call it, that
Bathed us in it's permissions before we
were even WE, that held us always after, that
Seduced me with the warm completeness of flowing up
Into your soul, being carried on a stream of passion that carries
Us as the same thought to that place unspeakable, where we are so
Close that there is no definition of who we are separately, where we are so
Much one being that we almost feel alone, where we are so joined that we nearly
Fear loneliness, but welcome all that has brought us here, and that sacred
Place where we are brought afterward, where the joy and elation of
Having been a singular soul holds us in the most blissful comfort
We've ever known, and wraps us, now once again you
And I, in a comfort and elation and peace that
Compares with no other, that is timeless
And boundless and hopeful,
That is filled with only
Us, you and I.

Bathed in that same
Moonlight that knew us before
We knew US, that knew we would
One day be here, and reserved these very
Beams for us, to wrap our bodies and our joy and
Our love in. This wish is born of all that, mostly that,
And more ... the little things like how amazing it was that
The spaces between your fingers fit mine so perfectly, how your
Smile warmed my heart with it's every appearance, many small sunrises
Throughout the day and night, that were even more hopeful and meaningful than the
Sunrise of morning itself. How the sound of your voice whispering my name
Sent an electric chill to my heart and my dermis, how every time we
Sang together we knew without speaking what the other was
Going to do next, and anticipated those changes with a
Timing that was as one, (another river we flowed up
Together, a river of music), and how our bodies
Fit together as though god had known
Before creation that we would one
Day know the perfection of
Each other's contours.

(continued)

Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details

Poetic Encryption Like Ancient Egyptian

Poetic Encryption Like Ancient Egyptian

This terror and threat to poetic clarity,
Becomes a pet rock for some poets.

Words do count for sure, but so does
Clarity unless poets put a mask on.

Encryption can be used to mask 
Certain vatic pretensions that poets
Harbor, at times, when waxing eloquently
About some trendy theme or some idea
Or notion deemed as avant-garde. 

If hieroglyphics were to be readily used
In our now advanced world of modernity,
Would they be viewed as:
A rifacimento? A renaissance? A code?
It all could be plain nonsense too!
Or maybe not . . . 

In T. S. Eliot’s, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,”
He enchants and captivates his readers to a rare and
Flavorful taste of vers libre, if one might be so bold, 
That is selectively sparing, and yet, well-calibrated,
With intermittent sprinklings of superbly crafted 
Visual imagery and eloquent tonal alliteration—
And varied meter, rhythm, and rhyme.
 
“Prufrock” is palpable with emotion and metaphor, yet—
Detached from a ready explanation of the delicious
Power of the words with which Eliot mesmerizes his
Readers with the devout cleverness of a Pied Piper.
 
One could see the eternal Footman
And hear his snicker—and be afraid;
One could roll one’s trousers;
One could dare to eat a peach;
One could walk upon the beach;
One could hear the mermaids sing;
But will the mermaids sing to him?
Only Eliot really truly knows . . .
The real Prufrockian mien here.

Are not such metaphors there . . .
To make us think?
To enchant our senses?
To play on our fears?
To be emotive?

And, yes . . . 
To tantalize our passions?
And, yes . . . 
To excite our psychic yearnings?

Yes . . . Contemplation is always vital!

Some poets speak in a self-tribal code.
Sometimes artful obfuscation is the real goal,
And sometimes—maybe not.

A cacophonic scramble of
Demonstrative and passionate
Words, thoughts, emotions.
All so pure and all so real,
And all in the poet’s mind!
All so exact and all so real!
 
Some, like the legendary Sylvia Plath,
Bring the reader to a forlorn world of
Lost faith, utter despair, and loneliness
In the midst of such a sad dream world.
Plath’s lyric poem — “Edge”
Summons readers to the brink;
Occurring one week before her 
Untimely suicide.

The power and symbolism
Resident in this, her final poem,
Point toward . . .
A perfection, A completion,
A tragic tribalism.

Plath’s symbology is both
Intense and compelling;
Forming its own sense of
Encryption while embellishing
A supernatural aura of immortality.

The redoubtable Ezra Pound in his
“Hugh Selwyn Mauberley,” and in
Many other of his complex poems,
Personifies a certain form of encryption
With his use of symbols and metaphors,
A mix of foreign languages, and a definite
Convulsion of syntax which makes for an 
Intellectual “Rite of Passage” defying, at times,
A clear analysis and ready understanding.
	
Pound in “Mauberley,” writes on various
Levels begging much pre-knowledge from
Each reader while amply teasing us with:
His gnomic predilection for novel themes;
His thirst for the unexpected and unusual; 
His formidable knowledge and language forte;
His array of uniquely woven word tapestries;
And his referential flair for striking aphorisms.

Pound does all of this so magnificently . . .
All the while forming imagery challenging
A reader’s sense of understanding:
Leaving a sense of syntactical encryption Writ Large!
Always challenging and never ever dull!
That is, if one’s cup of tea is reveling in the complex!

There is a profound literary sense to what some may say
Is Pound’s Janus-faced proclivity for genius and madness.
Pound will not disappoint you regardless of which bipolar
Face you ascribe to him.
Although, contrast and comparison are very important . . . 

Yet, I proffer that deep thinking and sometimes actually
Being confused at times . . .
May result ultimately in a true epiphany,
Leading each of us to a spirit of greater understanding!

I end with John Keats, who has left all of us, as poets,
With his immeasurable sense of naturalistic Humanism.
Keats’ pursuit of metaphor, nuance, descriptive imagery,
And sagacious symbology reflect the highest degree of
Poetic mastery and a strong sense of perspicacity obvious
In all of his works!

Keats also uses a type of poetic encryption—
With his diction, imagery, thoughts, and verse syncopation;
He’s quite elegant with his varied and fluent thematic reveries.
They’re always a joy to decipher, while leaving us to bask in 
Their powerful sense of clarity and persuasive meaning!

Many of Keats’ works reflect this form of encryption . . . 
“La Belle Dame Sans Merci”
Particularly comes to mind in this instance,
As well as his famous “Ode” narratives;
And his superb Grecian epic fragment: “The Fall of Hyperion,”
Presents the reader with a veritable smorgasbord of contrasts
And imagery, and an imaginative view of the classical conflict
Between the Olympians and the Titans! 

Divining the complex, chaotic, and unpredictable
In our world of arcane symbolism and imagery,
Reflect the modern world we live in today.
Poetic Encryption is indeed . . . 
So like Ancient Egyptian!

Hieroglyphics, after all, form their own
Sense of imagery and word pictures . . . 
Analogous to what we do today with the 
Words, images, metaphors, emotions, and
Symbols in our poetry!

Poetic Encryption is so like Ancient Egyptian! 
Amen! Amen! Amen! 

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
April 25, 2016 (Narrative)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Ngoc Nguyen | Details

From Laetitia to Euphoria an Epistle Warning against Melancholia: Part I

Dear Euphoria,

Melancholia is one of the more destructive downfalls in existence that one can suffer. Once engaged, it is easily the most difficult humour to surrender, the most difficult companion to forswear or to repudiate.

It is thus no exaggeration to solemnly declare and aver to another that Melancholia—of all humours—is best when avoided at all costs; it is not to be courted or to be carelessly entertained. Whenever confronted with the opportunity to make its acquaintance, decline the offer through all means at one’s disposal—even having false hope would be better than to acknowledge its rude presence. When it is seen on some busy avenue approaching in one’s direction do not hesitate to quickly turn the other way! One’s judiciousness in doing so will be bountifully rewarded. And when it perchance deigns to entice one with a kind word where none will graciously offer any, promptly refuse it. For by not accepting its ruse it is discouraged from trying again. Furthermore, regarding Melancholia, the much-used truism that ignorance is bliss cannot be emphasized too much or to the point of triteness.

Melancholia delights in currying favor with the afflicted and the habitually morose. It gives false hope to the simple, and comfort to the bereft. By endless promises it lulls the unwary and the incautious, and seduces the dejected and disheartened. Through guile it wins the confidence of its victims and entices them with sweet assurances of its faithfulness, that there is none like it. With a false mirror, it deceives the weak-willed into believing in its deceitful reflection, an image of ostensible benevolence and goodwill. Through incessant reminders it precludes its deceived victims from forgetting the unwavering cruelty of this world, and to religiously recall the superabundant kindnesses and generosity of none other than it. Through deceit and half-truths Melancholia erects and builds its crestfallen lovers into a false picture of security and unconditional, positive regard; only to watch them fall headlong from the precipice with their hopes and false sense of safety dashed to the hard, unforgiving ground below forever whenever the mood suits it. Throughout all this orchestrated tragedy Melancholia works insidiously, conscientiously, employing and using methods that it knows only too well and always with a single-minded goal to destroy.
Be forewarned, therefore, that Melancholia employs several principles for mental siege of its hapless prey.

The first principle of Melancholia is to prefer falsehoods and prevarications over truth. Where a true friend always tells a companion what he needs to hear, Melancholia tells that soul only what he wants to hear and thereby does him a great disservice. Though Melancholia beguiles with relish, it is of the mind that every iota of knavery goes the distance, that a trail of breadcrumbs entices as much as a meal of mutton. Unending weariness and a listless look invited destruction, but Melancholia protests in abundance that ennui and boredom are “health to thy navel and marrow to thy bones.” As Jonathan swore his faithfulness to David in the Old Testament, so swears Melancholia to them who would give ear to it; and feigns as a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Melancholia is in reality friend to none and an unchaste blight and scourge to all. It counsels against chastity and good sense, and delights in causing the young bride to abandon the husband of her youth. Melancholia dances to the music of psalteries and harps and cymbals and entices one to drink and be merry when mirth is in the house of fools and when deliverance is in the house of thoughtful only. When vigilance is required, it makes an exception for a little sleep and a little slumber. By bearing false witness against one’s neighbors, it works discord and strife where there is only peace and harmony. And through theft and fraud, Melancholia reaps where it did not sow.

Melancholia’s second principle is to spread belief that all is not for the best in the end. It contradicts and overrules master Gottfried Leibniz’s dictum that we live in “the best of all possible worlds” is absolute rubbish. Melancholia would have us all believe that we quite literally live in the worst of all possible worlds—in a Hell on earth, in fact! Melancholia blesses those cursed souls that heed Pessimism; and curses those blessed souls that instead heed Optimism. It deceitfully declares that all of God’s benisons are really curses, an onerous loan to be repaid in the future at great interest. “God’s blessings are essentially usurious!” protests Melancholia. Also, it would coax and canoodle everyone into the belief that Hobbes is right about the state of life and nature—that we all are condemned to lives that are “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” To hear such dark tidings is rude when one is feeling merry; but to hear the same woebegone news is bane when one is already crestfallen and morose. Indeed, to heed Melancholia is to reject all hope and to embrace the abyss. Even a happy death is preferable to the delusions of Melancholia. A caveat to all that it is better to immediately disown Melancholia upon its birth in the homestead of one’s mind by surrendering it to the wilds of your mental forests where the cognitive wolves can devour it, rather than let it grow to adulthood and take root in your psyche as an arch-rival to the throne of your psychological “kingdom.”

(to be continued in, "From Laetitia to Euphoria An Epistle Warning against Melancholia: Part II)


Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Jamie Pan | Details

Storm

The day was fine and sunlit,
Decorated by several clouds 
drifting aimlessly in the radiant ocean-blue sky.
Chorused by gentle puffs of the morning breeze,
Sending leaves on the streets twirling like
ballerinas in a dazzling and mesmerising dance.
and the trees too,
waving their twigs like hands saluting people walking past,
Then the emergency siren suddenly shrieked,
Threatening of a descending storm,
Send us scurrying to safety,
As dark clouds stretched across the horizon
and its shadow slowly devours the daylight,
People around the village stormed like a colony of ants panicking
from the incoming storm,
Busy sand-bagging their houses and boarding up their windows with plywood
To keep them from falling apart.

I was inside my study room,
Huddled beneath the mountain of textbooks piling around me,
Terrified that I may not survive
from whatever’s happening outside,
From the storm clouds swarming over the school,
Unleashing sudden, violent bolts of lightning slashing across the skyline
As the deafening roar of thunder echoed through the village,
And then it came.
Cruel and merciless rain beating down upon us,
An untamed ocean of terror and destruction thrown from the unusually blackened sky
accompanied by the howling of immense hurricane-like wind,
Red blood-like sap spurted from the trees
moaning and groaning in agony
As their limbs were brutally ripped away by the monstrous downpour.
The winds were savage animals screaming at the children
While gnawing and clawing at our houses 
like a pack of hungry wolves
searching for their frightened prey.
Iced daggers stabbed at my feet
As the waterfall gushed through our roof
And knocked me to the floor.
Slowing the pressure eased,
as the rain gradually lessoned,
until finally fading into a charming melody,
Resembling the graceful chimes of bells.

The molten-gold rays peaked out over the mountain-tops
Emerging from behind a peaceful sheet of mist,
Casting slanted beams of light shining across the village.
Fluttering of wings could be heard
as birds erupted from their shelters
followed by an explosion of elegant song.
They sailed majestically over the schoolyard in unison,
Chirping and cheeping through the village’s moat of vast forest
as happy as a newborn penguin.
When I stared toward the golden coin glistening in the brilliant sky,
It appeared to me that the day was fine and sunlit,
Decorated by several clouds
drifting aimlessly in the radiant ocean-blue sky.

WRITER STATEMENT

My poem Storm is an extended metaphor for the emotions around school exams. It is written in three parts: before, during and after the exam. The intended audience is teachers, and the purpose is to elicit sympathy towards students, especially ones who underperform in exams. This poem has a scary mood, featuring the themes of destruction and terror up to the climax when ‘Iced daggers stabbed at my feet/As the waterfall gushed through our roof’. The third stanza used ‘birds’ to metaphorically represent the joyful group of students after the examination. 

Sibilance was used when ‘the emergency siren suddenly shrieked’, with the sharp ‘s’ sound being uncomfortable and shocking to the reader. Sibilance was also used in the previous quote ‘Iced daggers stabbed at my feet’ allowing the reader to picture and feel the uncomfortable and painful scenario of rain ‘gushing’ through the roof like daggers made of ice. The mood intensified at critical points, with similes such as ‘leaves on the streets twirling like ballerinas’. Personification was used in the simile ‘gnawing and clawing at our houses like a pack of hungry wolves’, which exaggerated the wind’s animalistic brutality. An example of vivid auditory imagery is the personification and assonance of the trees that ‘moaned’ and ‘groaned’, which is an unpleasant and painful human sound, strongly appealing to the reader’s empathy. Furthermore, enjambment was used during the second stanza to create an interrupted rhythm. This changed the tone to a more panicked one, engaging the reader in the suspense of the storm. 

Anthropomorphism was used throughout the second stanza, where the storm clouds were accompanied by ‘the deafening roar of thunder’ and throws down upon the village ‘an untamed ocean of terror and destruction’. The use of lending a human element to a non-human subject (eg. Storm) allows the reader to emphasise with the feelings of the ‘villagers’, increases the relativity between the storm and the villagers, and also granting character to the subject (ie. Storm). 

Structurally, the shape of the text varied dramatically (not shown on the site, due to space availability) during the second stanza to represent the calamity and disorder brought by the storm, contrasted with the peace before and after the storm. The poem was also framed by repeating the same three lines at the beginning and end. This engages the reader in the message that no storm lasts forever just like exams. 

06/01/17

Copyright © Jamie Pan | Year Posted 2017

Long Poems