Long Ovid Poems
Long Ovid Poems. Below are the most popular long Ovid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ovid poems by poem length and keyword.
Narcissus And Echo
Thou scheme a tale, rightly told through Ovid,
Entreat thee twain hearts thus thee speak thereof,
Grant thee their role, dark, yea set thee forward,
Born per a nymph, reverse, a nymph in love.
Narcissus, hunter, heavenly vision,
Echo, spent in love and a shadow be,
She paces him in hopeful liaison,
He senses her presence but cannot see.
He beckons, his words albeit rebound,
Her confession irks him, she is ignored,
She kills herself, transmutes as a faint sound,
Nemesis made Narcissus self-adored.
He loved his image, were not meant two halve,
Killed himself for the one he could naught have.
*A glen echoes a rippling stream whose banks beget flowering golden Narssisci.
February 21
*1st Place*
Your Favorite Legend
~~Chantelle Anne Cooke
*3rd Place*
STRAND NO 800 ,any theme,any form FINALE
~~Brian Strand
Howmanysyllables;
14 lines x 10 syllables per = 140 syllables
I'm the cirizen of another country,
the long penynsula that stretches
into the vast Mediterrean Sea;
has anybody ever seen how lovely
it is with its snow-capped mountains
and verdant rolling hills oveerlooking
towns with castels and churches?
Has anyone ever heard the warbling
of canaries and of sparrows?
Before I pledge allegiance
to another flag and swear my loyalty,
I may feel a sense of betrail inside,
I'll overcome it and love both flags
and countries fairly and equally...
can one love two countries?
The farewell of a young boy departing
on his seventhenth year wasn't
as sad as that of my parents who were crying;
I sought an exciting future that
only America was offering
to the most adventurous spirit
flying over an unknown ocean...
navigated by hundres of ships under an airplane.
I'm a cirizen of another country,
a country loved by Michelangelo, Dante and Ovid;
no, I wasn't expelled from their cities as they were,
I obeyed the will of mom and dad.
I'm a citizen of another country
obeying the laws of the land and respecting everyone.
Land of Dante, Michelangelo, Vivaldi, Verdi, Vanvitelli and da Vinci;
there Julius Caesar spoke these victorious words," Vedi, vidi, vici."
From the majestic snow-capped Alps to the sun-scorched Sicily,
one is astonished by the sea and sky blending to unravel a mystery!
My gorgeous town lays among shady mountains that
protect it from storms and winds coming from the West;
its vast valley is overlooked by a stately, sturdy castle...
standing as a sentinel that made the invaders tremble.
Walk with me down the narrow paths flanked by pines, maples and firs
that lead to the scented and harmonious landscapes loved by Ovid,
and adored by Virgil who once saw them on his long travels;
and I being born there, makes me very enthusiastic and glad!
Not many have seen a splendid sunset stretching as far as Mount Vesuvius;
I stood on that breeze-caressed hill transfixed and vowed by the glorious
spectacle of rosy clouds as shrilling seagulls hovered over a harbor so calm;
I could almost see the swift, white sails returning from a sea still blue and warm!
To Flower
by Michael R. Burch
When Pentheus ["grief'] went into the mountains in the garb of the baccae, his mother [Agave] and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart (Euripides, Bacchae; Apollodorus 3.5.2; Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.511-733; Hyginus, Fabulae 184). The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate.
We are not long for this earth, I know—
you and I, all our petals incurled,
till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow.
Is there love anywhere in this strange world?
The Agave knows best when it's time to die
and rages to life with such rapturous leaves
her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high,
she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes
in love at all, she has left it behind
to flower, to flower. When darkness falls
she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls:
beheaded, bewildered. And since love is blind,
she never adored it, nor watches it go.
Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow?
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
Though I posted the following poem
(B)efore (C)ovid, a sense
of glee donned my being
the notion arose to trumpet anew
said literary handily crafted endeavor.
Not far from here – Perkiomen Valley -
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
regular folks going about their business
unwittingly participated in history,
a couple scant few years
after the American Revolution.
Two hundred forty three
(12.3 score) years ago
countless stripling soldiers
strapping farming homeboys
healthy agrarian lads
raised among generations
unseasoned lads in summer re:
offspring original settlers heirs
family acreage encompassed
wide uninterrupted forested swaths
across sprawling vistas
sparsely populated enclaves,
now heavily industrialized
lovely bones occupying
unmarked never known graves
buried amidst avast
cleft rapacious urbanization
long forgotten innocent youths
hailing within then bucolic
Montgomery, Delaware and Chester county
forsook their young precious lives
voluntarily promising sons
risking life and limb
more often former versus latter
sacrificing stripling flesh
encompassing urbanized tracts
quite familiar to yours truly
suddenly made aware
unbeknownst till yesterday
informative literary handiwork
titled "A Glimpse of Freedom"
engagingly written by Douglas Shupinski
details innocently naive country bumpkins
sacrificing potential sweat of brow,
albeit grueling labor
fostering holistic existence
transforming boyz to men
hardened green soldiers
into battle weary fighters
regarding, kickstarting, envisioning
inchoate cause named freedom
emancipating fledgling America
against British throne
awareness percolates,
perturbs, permeates psyche
synchronizing, manifesting, galvanizing
how past historical events
within close proximity,
where I mostly resided
since birth, now experience
absorption, communion, edification...
with dead souls
nearly deathly quiet
only most perceptive can detect!
A make-up artist? Um … no thanks.
That’s not my kind of courtship caper.
I want the girl who wrote a paper
on Massachusetts’ failing banks.
You can keep your belly-dancer.
The nimbleness that I would seek
is cerebral: I need the geek
who’ll find a cure for prostate cancer.
A chick who’s slick in silk and satin
is just what I’m inclined to spurn:
the only beauty I discern
likes reading Ovid – but in Latin.
The field is very small, because
I’m fussy, biased, preferential:
to me, it’s utterly essential
she knows who Dosso Dossi was.
I need you to be erudite:
call if you can tell apart
bead-and-reel from egg-and-dart:
the stamen from the Stagyrite.
One thing that’s truly terrific’s
knowing the plot of Lavransdatter:
write to me about grey matter
in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Sharon Tate? Scarlett Johansson?
My type is more Diane from “Cheers”.
She had stuff between her ears:
so save the blondes for Charlie Manson.
My ‘ask’ should now be quite transparent:
I’d love a lassie with a brain,
who writes reviews of Citizen Kane.
Where are you hiding, Hannah Arendt?
How true it is that one can't find better friends anywhere
than in this friendly community we call, " Poetry Soup " ;
before verses sounded too awkward and had no flair...;
until they all invited me in and tightened the loop!
And because of this devoted group of poets,
many have won contests and published books;
I have learned a lot from them and as my skills get better,
and like Ovid who wrote anywhere he went, I like to share!
How true it is that one can't find better friends anywhere
than in this circle of friendship where everyone can communicate
their thoughts penetrating minds much thicker than the air;
shouldn't everyone participate and start an interesting debate?
We have come to the right place by using these pens that seek amplitude
to make all potent tremble and change their unacceptable attitude;
words have power and we must use them prudently and not be rude:
make them ring as bells that chyme with joy to meet extreme altitude!
r
For those of a military cast of mind
There are many poems they can find
Which do embellish battlefield glory
In the telling of their story.
But for me there is another field of play
Where merry pleasure is ne'er far away.
Not for me delight in weapons martial
Rather the joy of parts venereal.
Your soft hair framing your face
Your soft lips yielding with grace
And your soft darting tongue lambent
with the sweetness of heaven sent
That elegant and graceful neck I next address
Whereon a gentle peck and soft caress
Lead to the ruby roundels of your swelling areolae
Atop which stand your radiant and pert papillae.
How the gentle smooth curve of your skin
Gently and softly draws me in
Until, as brave as stout Cortes ,
I rest upon Mons Veneris
Nestling in the ***** is
The magic of the ********
Whose caressing works like a charm
To trigger a mighty ******
Then down through those wisps of hair
Until I joyously find where
Your ***** moist and moistening
Do invite my tongue to paddle in
That divine nectar of your welling spring
With legs spread wide signals me come in
To fulfil the passion of our play
And unite in loving ecstasy.
'Twas Ovid with his Ars Amatoria
Explored amoris ars gladiatoria
Wherein your scabbard could sheathe my sword
And that is the purpose of this world.
Where military men are needed
To keep us safe and undefeated
My plea to make love,not war
Is my carmen et error.
Some kind of Boccaccio
they open The Book,
borrowing thoughts
and stories from muses,
for it is a tome
in its entirety,
each muse, a Page, unamused,
to be plucked from tomb,
those sepia petals thrown up in the air,
unravel, the yarns like confetti,
land at the feet
of others
weeds and rows of perennials,
who bend like willows
backwards, they watch
unhooded falcons soar up
against the sky,
all shades of colour
the ever-moving clouds
like music, divine,
pull them up as if on strings
threaded through needlepoint
of a sharper mind,
they are carried away, drugged,
making wishes, like dandelions
blowing each the other,
they become - more - storks,
each a story, undone,
sewn and seeded
for the larger Ovid
in exchange for kinder souls
they dangle, each and every one
their spines entitled,
The Decameron
opened up,
lives fluttering,
they are read
as the in-betweens
some Prencipe Galeotto
engaged with Dante’s trust
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Page
stork, stalk
the Decameron
Prencipe Galeotto
Dante
Ovid
NEW YORK NEW YORK AGAIN
When I go to the Service as soon as I get up
I listen to Frank Sinatra's song
“New York New York”
The city that never sleeps, as me
And I with pleasure, like Liza Minnelli
Making a profane cabaret
Where could win an Oscar.
I so much and good
How do they say they did it
Persian and Apuleius.
If it's hard for me to do it
Immediately burst into a thousand dicteries
ting on the mother who gave birth to me
How do the new parturients
Let them stop without an epidural, bareback
Shouting at the husband:
-You could be here giving birth, damn.
The comes out to the beat of the song
(Unparalleled daring is to say that I ):
"I'm going to New York
Could be Chicago (Yeah )
I want to be part of them.
My desire to as a bum
It has had an effect.
I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps
Blaring the toilet bowl
I wanna be king of the hill on top of
Like the kings of Madrid
In the Palace of Aranjuez.
So many farts contain our asses!
How long have I been ting here
You have seen and heard it.
When I pull the chain
The will be gone
Like the sins in the giant censer
From the Church of Santiago, in Compostela.
I'll fix it:
If I can here in New York or Chicago
I can do it anywhere
Up on the rooftops
As the ancient fables of the Greeks tell
What did the gods do, demigods
And all the fine mob.
The water from the cistern will transport me
As the famous Nile did
To the lies and hoaxes
That daily life contains
Until they incite me, again, to
Virgil and Ovid
Two big jerks, as me.