Long Novelties Poems
Long Novelties Poems. Below are the most popular long Novelties by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Novelties poems by poem length and keyword.
When the mama doesn't cry
She smiles and kisses her child goodbye,
I see the tears behind her eyes,
Sparkling like sunshine:
"Baby..come back soon"
She says,
But her baby was gone.
Baby Jane had left the world
Hung like the mobile above her cot,
As her mama stood beside
She soaked in the scent of freedom..
The bars of the window that separated them
Spilled assurance from the vacuum
That dwelt within her gullible mind:
Mama smiled again..
"Bye my Baby, Be good my child
Homely charms call me...
Back to my village I shall return,
Before the clouds go wild.."
She waved her hand by the turn,
And Baby Jane was happy..
The eyes she had, had the curious gait
Wandered deep and innocence, bait
The dabblers that didn't notice
Had died her living death.
Rosy cheeks and sultry hair
Doe-eyed beauty, thorough fair..
The novelties of charm for her
Had been mere indulgence of ardor,
She saw the dads and the mums,
The beggars with their deceptions,
Families with happiness strewn
Like flowers on Heaven's doors..
Lone warriors with baggage demeaning
The pursuit of happiness,
She wondered if her quest for life
Had been an oblivion..
Nirvana had led her to..
Baby Jane looked by the turn,
Strangers fluttered like wild butterflies...
The waving hand was just a vision
She sat quietly by the window,
On the leaving train.
"Life is an expedition to unknown territories. Adverse winds may veer round and the calm may be disrupted any time, but don't lose hope and pull on" ~ By Poet
Leaving the sheltered confines of the past
We embarked on an expedition, fresh and new,
With the present volume and its contents closed down
To open another and pore over its pages anew.
Everything was calm and still as we set out,
Except the pain of being cast loose from our anchorage
Over the swelling magnitude, we sailed past,
To alight into the novelties of another world.
On the bosom of a tranquil sea, with fleecy clouds above
We moved on to realms, fanciful and new,
And continued to sail over the lolling waters,
Gazing at the finny herds in undulating waves.
But sudden was the turn of wind and weather.
The waves rose to mountain heights.
Thunders bellowed over the wild waters.
And the sea into an aggressive fiend turned.
The billows lashed and crashed over the rocks.
All around was the booming sound of rushing waves.
Flashes of lightning left rents in engulfing gloom,
And the ship, adrift in the roaring currents.
At a point when it was about to drown
The tempest subsided; the sky turned clear.
What Providence has saved us from our peril?
We keep wondering now and ever!
Knowing that tempests will again strike,
And our vessel will be rocked hither and thither,
Now, with greater caution in every move,
With the riggings once more fastened tight,
And with the blue line of a cherished past,
Receding quickly away like a cloud in the horizon,
We continue our expedition, braving the waves,
And sail past to regions far and unknown!
narrative
Precious novelties, rare and unimpaired
reminder of events I'd love to share.
Recalling special trinkets in a hutch
for display only, labeled "Do Not Touch".
Awaiting finding of a misplaced key,
a new piece tempted curiosity.
Too precious to ignore, my small grandson
maneuvered carefully, warned by his mum.
Rejecting caution, which kids oft ignore
forgetful child just left it on the floor.
The next day, sister found it with her foot.
One piece, now three pieces, ruined, kaput.
Comes precious moment, happ'ning on my watch.
The brother faults his sister for the botch
who then returns accusatory blame.
Routine occurrence, 'companied by shame.
The moment builds, we search the house for glue.
Some chips still gone? Hurrah! we find a few.
Together, we three, talking as we work,
accountable, not acting like a jerk.
A precious moment in our history
when that collectible met surgery.
Four years later, standing tall, gath'ring dust
a priceless symbol, joint endeavor, plus.
written Jan. 2, 2013, revised June 29, 2017
It is written in the Constitution,
to even qualify as a small town,
you need to have a drive-in ice cream place,
you can trust me, Madison wrote that down!
They become our favorite gathering spots
when the snow melts and the weather gets warm;
Dairy Bar, Custard Shed, the Frostee Hut,
we’ve seen the names, and it adds to the charm.
They look like they were built in the 50s,
and all of the best ones usually were,
the slight slanting roof, two windows out front,
paved spaces for parking instead of dirt.
A spattering of old picnic tables,
sometimes a pavilion in case it rains,
often a playground or a nearby park
where the kids run around and act insane.
Thy have the normal milkshakes and soft serve,
this is the baseline, where they make their cash,
but also a host of fun novelties,
snow cones, bombs pops, and other things like that.
The best ones usually also do food,
you see the smoke venting out from inside,
burgers and fried clams, American classics,
pigeons stand by waiting for dropped French fries.
Come Independence some do fireworks,
and brings local bands to play for the crowd.
They don’t seem much, but a town without them
is not the type of place I’d stick around.
Red Ribbon Week and I have a new novelty junk for kids’ kit.
Pencils, suckers, bookmarks, red ribbons; the kids will have a fit.
There is a plethora of choices of novelties this week.
but I know better than to give them a choice or a peek.
So, I make an executive decision, quick like long-haul truckers.
Kindergarten through second grade gets the red suckers.
Third and fourth grades get the ribbons with shiny letters.
Fifth grade gets the pencils to fight over with their betters.
6th grade might get the bookmarks; they are drug-free but tough.
And maybe a sucker too; it simply depends on if we have enough.
I have not the slightest fear of death
One day it will come and say, Come with me.
I will stand there with my arms outstretched
The body lying in an unstable state,
Will grow numb with the fear of death.
Yet I do not fear death—
Nor have I been granted the boon of immortality,
Nor do I carry any hope
Of returning again to the same body.
What frightens me is worldliness.
With great difficulty I have encountered a single truth—
The final truth: death.
Do I know you?
Did I ever know you?
Yes, the truth is—
No, I do not know you,
Nor your existence.
Yet I always knew this much—
You alone are the ultimate truth.
I had heard much about you.
Today, having seen you, I understood:
Are you also a beautiful feeling
That humanity has for centuries called love?
Or are you the cardinal love of the present age?
Or are you a love
That transforms from the tangible to the intangible?
O Death!
Will you truly take me away?
Or after a moment of fragile stillness
Will you abandon me again
In the same shell of a body?
I do not wish to return to that fallen body.
If you have come to take me, then take me away.
I wish to live the consciousness of novelty.
I wish to go beyond postmodernity.
I wish to live again—
Childhood, mother, father, school,
And the friends of my school days.
O Death! Will you take me again
To give me that life once more?
For I have understood—truth resides there.
The present human is a hypocrite,
Who tears others apart daily for selfish ends.
O Death! Come, take me now.
I no longer wish to witness this reality.
Beyond excessive, excessive, excessive realism,
Introduce me to naire novelties of life.
O Death!
Will you be able to do this—
Just this—for me?
O Wanderer of Distant Shores
Sojourner to horizons veiled in alien mist,
when you return on wings of weary exile,
will you still recall the twilight hymns
chorused by a thousand chirping tongues
beneath the ancient baobab’s patriarchal shade?
Will the legend of the great hunter yet blaze within your breast
he whose lion heart sent forest sprites fleeing into shadow,
who claimed the land’s most radiant virgin as his bride,
a crown of courage woven into nuptial fire?
When you return,
will the spectral fable of the wraith still haunt your marrow
that restless phantom which drove our forefathers from the furrowed earth
at the first blush of dusk,
their hoes abandoned like forgotten prayers?
Will your fingers still remember the sacred alchemy,
plunging deep into the indigo womb of Aro
to birth Àdìre patterns for our beloved mother
blue constellations blooming on cotton skies?
The marketplace yet thrums, a living hive of ancestral rhythm,
every market day as raw and rooted as the hour you departed.
Our women remain unviolated by the foreign gloss,
their laughter pure as river stones.
Our men, still wary sentinels, eye the glittering lies of city folk
with the same ancestral suspicion.
Our children wear their beauty without shame or veil,
offering it boldly to the sun and wind.
Yet the harrowing screams of our virgins still lacerate the velvet night
as they bleed beneath the mutilator’s blade
an ancient wound that time refuses to cauterize.
Will you still know the holy communion of Iyan
that silken mound of yam, pounded with the sacred sweat of maidens,
molded tenderly with Egusi in vessels of baked earth,
a feast born of labor, love, and loam?
When you return,
will your tongue not recoil from the velvet slime of Ila,
once mastered with such grace beside Amala’s dark, yielding earth?
The leaves of the whispering forest still guard our strength and virility,
their bitter elixirs weaving resilience through our blood,
though they have never promised salvation from every shadow of pain.
O sojourner,
when you return from that far dungeon of subjugation
that iron sepulchre which devoured our songs, our creeds, our gods
teach us not the hollow novelties of conquered lands.
Return instead with memory intact,
with heart uncolonized,
and lay your hands once more upon the warm, living clay of home.
Two societies, two cultures, two ways, two worlds,
But the same mechanisms, glares, shuns and goals;
No-one knew the other, but the church had words,
For the special disabled school to adjust their bowls.
No pluralism, no perspective, no individual identities,
Just a passionate disabled self to only mix with flames,
Never allowed to cohere with or love outside entities:
Was indeed suppressed and thwarted for playing games.
This world holds all people and is made of communities,
Which habituate diversities and not similar creations,
That can’t often be specified because of rare novelties:
When an identity is just emerging, it has no derivations.
Acceptance is the yeast of decision, it gives us stance,
And betterment will only come whenever we assimilate;
Integration does not transcend from condescendence,
But prevails when affection does blossom to mediate.
NOVELTIES
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their whores for exotic positions.
This is my translation of a Latin epigram by the English poet Thomas Campion. In Campion’s era some English poets continued to write poems in Latin and/or Greek. For instance, John Milton and Andrew Marvell wrote poems in Latin, while Shakespeare was criticized by Ben Jonson, if I remember things correctly, for having “little” Greek and Latin.
Not being “versed” in the senior languages was seen as a deficiency in literary circles back then. Shakespeare was called an “upstart crow” for daring to write “litter-chure” without a proper university degree. How could he properly quote the ancients if he couldn’t read them in their original languages? The Bard of Avon was doomed to failure and obscurity … or perhaps not, since the English language was finally in vogue in England (where for centuries English kings had been unable to read, write or even speak the mother tongue, preferring French, Latin and Greek).
My title is a bit of a pun, because novels were new to the world when they first arrived, and were thus considered by the literary elites to be “novelties” not on par with more serious verse plays. Some of the more popular early novels were “subversive” (pardon the pun) explorations of sexual naughtiness, through characters like Tom Jones, Moll Flanders, et al.
Campion probably didn’t have such campy (enough with the puns, already!) novels in mind when he wrote his epigram, since the more titillating (cease! desist!) ones had yet to arrive. But perhaps he would prove to be a “profit” (I’m udderly hopeless!).
Keywords/Tags: Campion, Latin, translation, exotic, exoticism, epigram, novels, novelties, book, books, booksellers, publishers, write, writing, author, authors, poet, poets, poetry, poems, pimps, whores, prostitutes, prostitution, exotic, positions, extended metaphor
Oh Moonbeam
As your diaphanous folds envelop my face …
A singing wind heralds your arrival
Trees swaying in time with her tempo
Leaves the instruments of natures symphony
Rustle in time with earths choir …
My Grey negative retreat
Turned into a slight blue heaven …
Illuminating
the most trivial of novelties
coming alive at rays first kiss
Light unfettered by earths embrace
Magi in the night …
Man in the moon
Laughing gleefully at his delusion …
My companion in the night
trusted friend I feel wanting at your void
Grey night overwhelms your hold
luster fades and darkness conquers
Your burnished blue brilliance …
Moonlight
Potent enchantment of radiance …
Returning to embrace and enlighten
euphoria a cold blue tendril
Enliven a world
bereft of illumination
bringing magic
moonlights great performance …
Oh Moonbeam
your delicate blue kiss warms a soul …