Long Mnemosyne Poems
Long Mnemosyne Poems. Below are the most popular long Mnemosyne by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mnemosyne poems by poem length and keyword.
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In math, "e" is a fundamental constant used as the base of natural logarithms, approximately equal to 2.71828
The word rut has three distinct meanings: a physical track in the ground, a monotonous routine (being "in a rut"), and a breeding period for animals
Curts meaning is =abrupt in manner
E--rut-curts
(eh-ruh-uh-tah-cah-uh-er-tah-es)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Erutcurts (Noun) defined as a animal pregnancy is gestation. It refers to the span of time from conception to birth when the developing embryo or fetus is carried inside the mother.
Cattle: Approximately 283 days
Horses (Mares): Approximately 11 months
Sheep: Approximately 150 days
Goats: Approximately 150 days
Pigs (Sows): 114 days (or 3 months, 3 weeks, and 3 days
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Erutcurts (abstract or mass noun)defined means =Music without structure often refers to "through-composed" pieces, ambient drones, or free improvisation. Instead of relying on familiar patterns like verses, choruses, or a strict 4/4 beat, it prioritizes a continuous, evolving flow of sound driven by texture, mood, or spontaneous emotion
Erutcurts (noun)= used to describe the art form or pattern of organized sound. Even entirely structureless, free-form, or atonal sounds still fall under the category of music, functioning as the subject or object of a sentence
--ERUTCURTS (noun)-defined on the menu or unwritten recipes.
erutcurts palindrome for structure.
A Palodrome is a word, phrase, or number that “runs back” on itself
For days and days the Professor would stay at Bingo Mountain. He meet people who brainwashed him into evil.ell respected, he'd lead the cause against tainted honey: now he make a batch of Carmel to add to the corny sweet syrups to fool a public into thinking they had purchase the best. Not only that he had developed a hideous habit. Eating the larvae and wasp and honey bees that he
had cultivated for study and breeding. It's said that he asked a chef to mix a fruity cocktail of nectar and wasps that he might devour them. A scientist there was world renewed, he had developed a potion that could change a moral man into a Hercules type person. They developed the Nectar of the Jupiter !
He had only to completely change his diet and had his blood filtered by a machine that recreated him into asuper human. Vile and wicked he became. One day The Shadowy Demon who had purchased his soul told
him he would be leaving never to be seen again. He gave him paper that made The Professor the ceo of Bingo Mountain and all his business ventures. Pollen Grafting machines and Pollen collectors would make him a richer person.Then he stood before the Professor and said " Never believe you ever met me:I am as strange to you as the day we met!" than he vanished into thin air!
Cultivating habits that promote personal growth, well being and an overall quality of life.
" Ripples in stream, where the moss covered slippery rocks are the only things beneath your feet!" " in I love the new me:such an affirmation cements the bonification of my need to love: I do love me so much!" Then he spoke to his new position: "sacred I stand ilmortal ,me among the Muses,Mnemosyne, the ancients shall remember me through there Muses until they bend there knees in submission!" "I am the solvent to all questions of art and science< I am the then< the now and future of both a model to stand through the ages!" He stood there
laughing: his evil laugh!
From Inspiration of a Hero
writtem by:Stem and Kirsch Fortissimo
for Bold and Powerful Sound Inc.
Story Music/ Drama-Animation
Doctor Wolfgang Sinister
the animated series
Jean Jinglers
and platform Shoes
She stands where broken tiles
echo the tremors she once carried alone,
her gold skirt flowing like a fallen sun
as the chains keep their cold vigil
against her slender arms.
Butterflies rise anyway~
a rabble of bright Psyche-born messengers,
their wings stirring the stillness
with the soft insistence of prophecy,
guiding her toward the open door
where Eos spills her first forgiving light.
Their flutter is a fragile scripture,
the kind Ariadne might have trusted
when she placed her trembling faith
in a single thread.
Here, too, a thread glimmers~
not woven, but wing-borne~
lifting her gaze from the stone-bound dark
toward a threshold where Mnemosyne
remembers her without sorrow,
and Persephone’s quiet ascent
whispers that even the underworld
cannot keep what longs for dawn.
In that widening brightness,
the chains don’t fall;
they simply loosen
as if the Moirai themselves
have revised her fate.
Her breath stutters.
Her pulse wavers like a prophecy
she’s afraid to believe.
And the butterflies~
not saviors,
not symbols,
just small companions
refusing to leave her
circle gently,
guiding her into a light
she hopes
will not vanish
when she reaches for it.
1.
Uninvited you come, oh Erato*, you muse of poetry, the
Majority of the times,
Knocking at my soul’s door at any given moment
Insisting on letting you in, your message to deliver
Disregarding at what state my soul is and if she could
With your request, comply
2.
Oh, Muse of poetry, when with my soul’s inspiration
You are flirting all the time
Whispering in her ears words of wisdom, coming
From your divine essence
My soul, mesmerized, tries the words of wisdom,
Lingering in her depths, again to remember**
3.
A difficult task it is; indeed, I admit,
For the language of heavens that my soul, once
Knew very well, now she has forgotten**
Because of her association with her mortal body
For that reason, oh divine muse,
Be patient with her and give her just
A little more time
4.
The time that my soul needs, divine muse, to learn
Or rather to remember
How to talk and to express herself in writing the way
You would like:
In accordance with the universe’s harmony and
Its eternal laws
5.
When this blessed hour comes, my soul able
Would be, poems to compose
But
Her writings, her creations, and her poetic epics,
The work of you would be, oh muse,
No credit would, my soul, claim
For
She knows very well that only an instrument she is,
Oh muse, into your godly embrace,
Just to be used according to your desire
Because only you, oh muse of poetry, know
How
The universe’s poetic language should be used
And how, in verse, it has to be
Delivered!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
30 SEPTEMBER 2014
* Erato, one of the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (memory ).
She is the Muse of lyric poetry, love poetry, and marriage songs.
** Socrates, Greek philosopher 469-399, believed that the soul knows the truth but because of her association with the body, after her incarnation, she forgets therefore what we call learning is, in reality, a process of remembering as it is indicated also by the name of Erato’s mother, Mnemosyne, (memory).
A poet should always follow Erato’s instructions that come in the form of inspiration, in order to reach the desired result. This is because Erato’s knowledge is unadulterated for it is divine!
SILENCE
Articulations bound by another’s place.
Maw silenced, no expressions from this face.
Inarticulate, the lingna moves not for Beauty.
Vocal cords caught, a voice sought.
Yet no lyrical, poetic vibrations projected.
Pinna, tympanic membrane never again to be affected?
Silences, preponderates the roar between a reality and memory.
Mnemosyne, perched on high, tells the story.
Mneme gives insight, with insight, no glory.
For all, fear, fear it has come to an end.
No longer a supposition ?, a bestfriend?
To hold out for a touch, may prove too much.
Auricle, not the Oracle, to believe.
The heart blinds, it doth deceive.
Love ?, did the soul ever receive?
It flounders at the bottom of boundless seas.
B. J. "A" 2
August 15th 2011
Fair Angels of Parnassus, Muses Nine,
That on its snowy summit gay recline
With other gods, are haply the cynosure
Of poets whom inspires your sacred ewer,
O'erflow'd with the ambrosial Hippocrene,
The haunt of daughters of Mnemosyne,
And Father Jove who loves these nymphets most,
And of that gelid crest th’ immortal host.
Apollo, son of Jove, gives company
To your glad song of heaven’s euphony;
There to his lyre flourish unfetter'd throats
That bear the truest art through truest notes.
When sing ye graceful goddesses amidst
The brood of Saturn’s mighty son in feasts,
May gladden the heart of children of the plain
As well who in summer nights hearken you fain.
I heard that music mild betwixt the glades,
‘Twixt valleys old till with the breeze it fades,
Amongst the rustling youthful Aspen leaves,
From bough to bough its tender beauty weaves.
On warbler’s throat ye happy strains do pour,
Above the groves as o’er the mountain soar
They with their pinions unweary and suave,
Dispenser of all art ye fain observe.
4th April, 2017
Coleridge once wrote of the Khan’s pleasure dome
Where Mnemosyne, the mother of muses did roam
And her daughter, Caliope, was the muse of epic poetry
Gave rise to Orpheus, who joined Jason on his odyssey
His love, Eurydice was killed while dancing to his tune
A beautiful nymph, the daughter of Apollo, died to soon
Tragedy and comedy underlie classic Greek Mythology
And while ancient in deed, is the basis of psychology
Thus when the creativity springs from my inner mind
I recognize my source of beauty, the special muse behind
Humble poet, graced by a lovely and elegant guiding sprite
A heavenly creature that slips into my dreams in the night
In deed and thought she shines golden light on Earth
Like the starry celestial orb guiding lost sailors to the North
Perhaps she is unaware of her power, unaware of her love
But all I can say is that she is my muse, shinning from above
Sonnet VII – Invoking The Muses
I call the daughters of Mnemosyne:
Sweet Erato, your kithara solo -
Dearest Euterpe, your aulos blow -
So my words won’t die in ignominy.
Inspire me with words of wit and charms,
That playfully dance like leaves on the streams.
Send them from above, like silver moonbeams,
To embrace my love with gossamer arms.
Like Icarus, I want to reach so high,
But I’m a simple man with simple rhymes
Who wants to enchant, inspire and amuse –
Hoping my loved one will longingly sigh,
And offer her heart to me for all time –
Which is why I’m invoking the Muses!
Drowsy vertigo thoughts losing their substance
in the spirals of deafening maelstrom black waters,
my letters—my ruins—my Sodom
becoming the cries that
never reach bottom—
—never reach bottom—
never reach bottom—
now becoming both absence and presence,
lurking among their ashen, disintegrating essence.
The stubborn nails doomed in this sinking box
restoring their vileness, those rotten thoughts
somehow find themselves looking up—
looking up—
looking up—
dizzily, dismally, dishearten by the luminance
never again to be reached—
absence and presence and eminence
engulfed.
In time,
Mnemosyne alone
witnesses the damned
parts of me
die.