Long Meter Poems
Long Meter Poems. Below are the most popular long Meter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Meter poems by poem length and keyword.
Revelations of the Spirit!
Good things are known to come to those who come before their God,
who praise release from earthly woes by celebrating days
of spilling sperm (that meets its end or egg that sparks new life),
creation’s spark has pitched its tent in place of excrement.
“Both fair and foul are next of kin” (1) (if I might paraphrase
some words Jane speaks), with grave and bed compared, noblesse oblige
for those less traveled in this world! What Bishop knows a wife
(excuse)? The pleasures of the flesh called sin (despite intent)
by those who bow to Popes, to Satan’s spawn! A privilege
that they don’t practice! When they think, think those who do so odd!
Will Jane find love although her breasts have grown quite flat with time,
(though proud priests say she’s ignorant of things that matter most)?
I think she will, though dark days come and time eclipses all!
What Nature IS, what Nurtures man, is not his providence,
nor can we think to save ourselves, if God’s not real, we’re toast!
Is worth of self what Jane boasts of, the raptures of the mind?
Can body’s curves, a garment’s subtle wrap, how tresses fall,
boast they’re of what she speaks! Or lowliness her evidence
she matters? God’s grand scheme of things? Not judging (she’d call kind)!
Massaging rhythms vital, love for seasons, love of rhyme!
Long Tooth
1st of September in 2020
Poet’s Notes:
(1) One of my favorite poems by William Butler Yeats
Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop
I met the Bishop on the road / And much said he and I.
‘Those breasts are flat and fallen now / Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion, / Not in some foul sty.’
‘Fair and foul are near of kin, / And fair needs foul,’ I cried.
‘My friends are gone, but that’s a truth / nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness / And in the heart’s pride.’
‘A woman can be proud and stiff / When on love intent;
But love has pitched his mansion in / The place of excrement;
For Nothing can be sole or whole / That has not been rent.’
*
*
Does anyone want to comment or have thoughts about why Yeats would be so
cavalier about meter in the last two lines of each stanza, even the 1st line of the second stanza when 'Both fair and foul..' would be such an easy fix! It seems hard to believe that he is deliberately sloppy. What is his purpose here?
The weather was just how I liked it
Looking like it would stay dry
The breeze had the sharp tinge of winter
Beneath a low overcast sky
The thick blackthorn hedgerow behind me
Bordered the tangled beech wood
In front was a sowing of Rape seed
The shooting from here should be good
The ditch in which I was standing
Was shallow and recently dried
I put up my camouflage netting
As kind of a temporary hide
I looked across my field of fire
It spread further than buckshot would reach
So I opened my trusty old twelve bore
And slipped two Eley five’s in the breach
I saw something off in the distance
Out on the old bridal trail
I knew straight away it was Reynard
I could see the white tip on his tail
This dog fox was working the hedgerow
Looking for something to eat
In a week or two he won’t be hunting
For vixens will soon be on heat
Then came a sound to my left side
I heard the dry rustle of leaves
I eased off the safety catch gently
And stood still not daring to breathe
Nearby from a patch of dead Teasel
A Pheasant was poking its head
It’s wattles were white as a snowflake
Round it’s eye was a dash of bright red
It’s head and neck seemed to change colour
With a green and blue oil like sheen
It sported a thin clear white collar
The clearest one I’d ever seen
Cautiously into the open
It was only three meters away
I was stunned by it’ breathtaking beauty
This vision is with me today
It looked like a fowl made of copper
Each breast feather tinged with a Pink
And edged with the finest black outline
As if they’d been sketched in with ink
It’s wings were a blend of dark ochre
Mingled with olive brown hue
It’s tail was two thirds of a meter
What was this hunter to do
Quite unaware of it’s danger
It slowly strolled on to the crop
Carefully I raised my shotgun
But something inside me said STOP
No way could I fire at this vision
This beauty by me won’t be shot
I came to an instant decision
Find something else for the pot
I have enjoyed many a pheasant
Washed down with a bottle of red
The countryside here would be poorer
If this lovely creature was dead
The bird by now had become bolder
and had wandered some distance away
With an unloaded gun on my shoulder
I went home having had a good day
I will have bread and cheese for my supper
Form:
Wonder’s Darkness
by Odin Roark
He knew wonder well
It could cancel fear
And bestow courage
A nexus for survival
A predawn beginning
His solo-climb of the face
Thought crazy by doubters
Had started swift and easy
The results of plans
Rehearsals
Confidence
The wall’s darkness was his own
Anchoring piton after piton
Securing each meter of ascension by feel
With unharnessed confidence of mind
For this was a climb of defiance
Knowing few if any
Might or would
Ever understand his exhilaration
His unique love of climbing-chalk and sweat
Carabineers and rope
Anchors and ascenders
Tenuous connections to life
All married to his inner eclipse
Yet at the halfway point…
Exhaustion appeared
Adrenalin waned
His pendulum traverse had missed
Time seemed to stop
Flesh and rock collided
Bringing cold panic
Seizing breath to hold
Suspending threatened fate
Even as the skill of a spider
Had kept him safely vertical until now
Death’s harassment had not been part of the plan
His back rested against cold granite
The lead taste of blood from his nose
Conflicted the balsam and cedar fragrance
Gusting up from the valley floor
Fifteen hundred feet below
His straight down reality
Minutes passed…
Awe and respect
Life’s often ignored necessitude
Hung together with him
Against the sheared mountain
Some predicted his dreaded finale
With tenacity as partner
Calmness merged with a blanket of sunrise warmth
The crisis became the past now
This test of tests faced completion
His mind eased back to a climber’s trust
Careful feeling about
Delivered firm grips
Precise movement
Renewed determination
Moving him deftly toward the descent team’s cheers
Waiting on distant topside
Resisting aid
He reached the summit
And gathering minutes of needed rest
Even amidst the accolades and glee
He prepared for the hard part
The trek down the backside
This blind climber knew
Like those with eyes to see
Exhaustion can make even a simple return route
More dangerous than the climb
With the descent team
Assisting his tired body
The crude trail carved
For bushwhacking
Brought danger often missed
Until it was too late
Loose scree
Roots of trees
Ruts and rocks
With sightless vision
He maneuvered the precarious path
His certain smile becoming contagious
Moving shaking heads of doubters once
To embrace a blind climber’s wonder
As their own
Hopelessness is that brief lapse, that necessary pause,
Closing the door on an existence of conflict.
It is that first gasp, that momentary stab of sadness,
Defying design and allowing no plan for escape or rescue.
It is fear rushing in on the glorious notes of Mozart’s Requiem,
Filling open wounds with beautiful sounds of death.
It is enduring pain that pierces so cruelly and cuts so deep
That emotion is broken and awareness is impossible.
Hopelessness is letting go of childhood dreams,
Knowing that neither perfection nor performance
Will ever change the outcome.
Hopelessness is finally accepting the sorrow,
Unclenching tight, childlike fists,
And simply releasing a childhood that never really existed.
Hopelessness is surrendering to anguish and despair,
Uniting with tears of defeat and pain; then silently saluting this passing foe
Who has graciously captured the field, and left open the door to compassion.
Compassion is the promise, the holy gift of hopelessness.
Compassion is the stairway, the path in the forest
Leading to that lovely grace, that perfect stop
To conditioned patterns of suffering.
Compassion is the meter, the cadence of the heart,
Transforming deceit into joyful affirmation;
Proving that control and intimidation
Had lost their power long ago.
Compassion is the redeeming grace of hopelessness,
If I dare to breathe it in and let go of the need to suffer.
Compassion is the golden key to my imagined prisons,
If I dare to accept its comfort and simply review the pictures from my past.
Compassion is the cool water of life, soothing me,
If I dare to lay my head upon the verity it offers.
So take hold, my grieving heart;
Embrace this gift of hopelessness;
Wrap hard your arms around it,
This saddest of sadnesses.
Swallow it whole
And let it fill your mind and body and soul.
Then exhale the suffering
And believe you are worthy of love.
For in the end, it is compassion that will walk me through
The painful shame of my past, then patiently sit beside me
As I release the familiar solace of suffering.
For in the end, it is compassion
That will give me the grace and courage
To accept the gift of hopelessness.
[written on the theme of the Buddhist Day of Enlightenment -
and to release all that is hindering our attainment of compassion]
It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................****, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
Freedom is an alter ego like a mask
Behind which censor has no eyes, and balm its blood applies.
Poetry is my freedom when wings cannot fly
The pain of the arrow in my solitary eye ...
You wrote me as a poem, I write you back so I
Can write a poem that invite your poem to tea.
I sometimes see me in the mirror of words
And cannot recognize who I am
How many points of light forms my face alone
Making a fable on the faulty foundation of sense
Are these suppose to be revelations
For I have longings carved like a Grecian Urn
The stillness of that eternity frightens me
Like is a simily ... a wave of action towards a full intent
So many symbols, and everyone alienating
Why can't we tell truth in Images
Like eggs. A cycle from essence to existence
And through all the purposes of each motion
Phases of a common solution?
Mirrors are not reservoirs, you know, they preserve nothing
Let culture preserve what it will
My art shall do the selecting of what the will must be
For I must preserve truly if only preserve me
And do not fear now, some conflict between you and I
That my preservation can be your destruction is such a lie
Broken mirrors make distinctions
A thousand shards point their image at a single eye
But feel, when you cannot see
Feel the universal solution ... for we are only solutes
In the solvents of our meaning
You and I the tangents of a simple circle converging
I love the breaking of isolation
The conversation dissolving us again
Into a common brotherhood, beyond the blundering pain
Our life is fragment of everything now
Politics, economics, physics, dreams and faith
Word is but a mirror before us, the senses little gates
The mirrored shadow has only one moral imperative here
To haunts us till we make it right
I exorcised the ghost that bind us up with fear
And long to break the mirror too
And feel my wings flying in the perfect nothingness.
Wait for me, brother. I am coming too
Swinging on a beam of star, sipping on love's dew.
Measured in unmeasured meter
Defying our partition into syllables of spoon
Rhyming to mate a synonym exactly to the moon
Everything in this solution is never abstraction
Never more a ritual of dump imperial traditions
I shall break the mirror then, the first act of our liberation
And the water shall turn to wine.
Since the elders often proclaim, my how time flies,
You then naturally look up into the skies.
To study the heavens for at least one small sign,
From the horizon up to the tallest tree line.
Then suddenly, a flock of birds flitters about,
So you believe that you might have time figured out.
But when the old people mentioned, my how time flies,
They didn’t bring up birds; so is time in disguise?
As a carnival balloon, yes that’s it, you say,
Like the vanishing kind on a bright summer day.
But losing your own, is one of life’s biggest fears,
Since you don’t want to waste any time crying tears.
It’s possible that time is commuting by plane,
Which is surely the fastest speed time could attain.
But what good can that be when the planes out of sight,
Unless it quickly returns from its roundtrip flight?
Then is waiting around to see time such a waste,
When each day there are many affairs to be faced?
Then out of the blue a helicopter is seen,
And you reflect, maybe time is on that machine.
But as soon as a copter is here it’s gone by,
After noisily chopping the beautiful sky.
Although it’s very unlikely time takes that ride,
Unless it cannot hear, or ear plugs are supplied.
Wait a minute, I got it, time surfs over clouds;
If I could do the same all my friends would be proud.
And occasionally time would appear as rain,
But then an excess amount would go down the drain.
Then could time be a portion of air all the time,
To be breathed in, or to give life to a wind chime?
Though, is that really flying like old people claim?
It seems all my guesses are exactly the same.
Well, after a long life of thinking and trying,
To figure out the ways that time could be flying,
In heaven, by feather, or motor, as vapor,
Yet, not one of those ways can be proved on paper.
Until recently, when I looked in the past,
The answers were there for those time questions asked.
That time really flies, though it takes time to see,
That a lifetime of living, is the real key.
And now I tell the young, that time truly flies,
But don’t bother looking up into the skies.
Time earns its wings every day, inside the mind,
And can only be seen, when looking behind!
David Fisher for Impress Me-Iambic Meter Contest
Philosophical motif
Oh the images we freeze in time
the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls.
Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown
upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets
showing frozen plumped out peeks of
blistering love, gape toothed girls
and sour apple dreams.
We freeze in time on scrapes and shards
on compasses far from the woodlands scene
the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers
as they touched my dimpled chin,
blue eyes behind wire rims.
The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts
Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee
and father's black onyx ring
ah, I still have him.
The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes
hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards
relentless, heartless is the passing
passing into the frayed, worn fringes
of our dollop of mirrored time.
For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days
bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie
do not forget the taste of the love
the cotton candy kisses
their first chocolate cone.
On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes
without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,
play all the old tunes from radio days
and invite your loved ones
to come home.
This is my form it is called Etcetera.
Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no
syllable count.
I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of
Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz
When tongue is silent, but muse is chanting - that's poetry.
When we write what the heart has been asking - that's poetry.
As dawn's hues glisten golden rays, in blue, bronze, orange skies,
musings mirror daydreams, so enchanting - that's poetry.
Butterflies smooch cosmos, as bees sip on dahlias nectar.
Scents of deep red roses start enhancing - that's poetry.
Clement air pleasantly overwhelms with pleasures of love,
muse becomes a bard lost in romancing - that's poetry.
Mentality turns dark when clouds spread densely like ash smoke.
Scarlet ink screams tears to stop storms advancing - that's poetry.
In shades of loneliness, thoughts reach out to our loyal moon,
beneath her moonlight we sojourn, standing - that's poetry.
A heart is healed by spoken words composed with compassion.
Poets smile when they see sad lips laughing - that's poetry.
As sands of sorrow pause, soul glows like a million fireflies.
Nature's metaphors leave our pens dancing - that's poetry.
Stale ink dehydrates and thoughts become segments of cement,
mind is a machine, where words keep jamming - that's poetry.
Daylight or night, bed, bath or driving, lyricists inspired
by sunshine, snow or when rain is lashing - that's poetry.
Word weavers scribbling sonnets, free verse and poetic prose,
forming imagery instead of ranting - that's poetry
Silent One, writes to honour Rumi, Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
In hope my words will be everlasting - that's poetry.
The Silent One
29 August 2020
An example for the Ghazal contest.
This Ghazal has a two worded refrain. Slightly different in format to previous ghazal, I posted, called 'Only the moon understands.'
This one has 14 syllables each line.
There are different definitions for a Ghazal, and different interpretations of the from.
Ghazal poetry is poetry of longing. Traditionally, the ghazal tended to focus on unattainable love, often illicit, or sometimes on metaphysical questions. But, today, the ghazal has broadened to touch many types of longing and loss.
The ghazal is a form poem that uses the art of rhyme and repetition. As it is originally a Persian form and the Indian subcontinent, the refrain and rhyme can be lost when translated to English, as is the meter.
Shhh....Ok, quiet down, quiet down; let me smash this clown.....
Ryan, kneel before your father, or I will pop you like a cyst!
Writing this slam I shouldn't bother, you're not even on the "top 50 best poets" list!!
You've soupmailed me twice, so since you don't know, a "warlock" is a "male witch!"
I'm not here to play nice; what are you , P. D.'s bit#%?
I see you left me a comment or two, practically begging me...
Who the hell are you for me to read your lame poetry?
You need to check the soup news, I don't have a computer, I'm an inmate!
So you need to pay your soup dues, then your slams I may educate!
Look at your poems title; In "Destroy" you forgot to add the "E.R.!"
Is P.D. your idol, or are you just attracted to the bizarre?
Talking about my slams are "odd," are you mentally ok?
Download some Eminem on your I-pod, and learn some word-play!
And you do know a "shamrock" is for good luck, right?
Slamming with the Poetic Warlock you need to prepare yourself for a fight!
How many rhymes do you have in your vault? Not many?!
Watch my poetic summersault, because I've got plenty!!
I'm about to slam your butt for days, until you beg for mercy.
My stanza's will set you ablaze, so feel my fury!
You gave me a 29 line slam with no meter, that should be a sin!
Damn, if you're gonna be a cheater, don't you dare pick up a pen!!
This is 22 lines, the sixth stanza, now that's what cha call poetry!
Oh-my-God, it's a "stanza bonanza," so Ryan are you following me?
You're a poet-in-training, but I don't want your ass in my class!
These poetic bombs are raining, so don't throw stones if you're made of glass!!
I see you ran to Sidneys' rescue; Man, are you "Captain-save-a-hoe?!"
I'm gonna lyrically beat you black and blue until a "Souper" yells, "TKO!"
That's right, I'm going for the knock-out, straight for the heart.
You'll scream and shout, as I poetically tear you apart!
Ding Ding!!! This round has come to an end, but you'll not return.
So go on and tell a friend, how you failed as P.D.'s intern!
*Note: my fellow poets are encouraged to read "Ryan Emeralds" slam "War-locked with a
Poet Destroy"...My fellow soupers tell young Ryan don't slam with the champ! Peace and
love ...Jimmy Anderson #0459587 ;)