Long Perhaps Poems
Long Perhaps Poems. Below are the most popular long Perhaps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perhaps poems by poem length and keyword.
Her story ends in a storage unit;
she wrote it quickly in-between bottles of Liebfraumilch
- her life so far,
an autobiography hard to imagine
could have been told in any other way.
The editing took many toll-taking years
decades that squeezed themselves into her soul
fearful of being overheard.
A tell-tale flotsam of hurried escapes,
the litter of abandoned rented apartments,
dockets of disarray, a tally of wrong choices,
unkept residue locked away for a better day.
Among the put-away, a ‘little brother’ manual typewriter
in a suitcase marked ‘mine,’
one edge crushed by a jumble of household items.
Various chunks of collateral clutter,
now stricken in a clamshell of dinge,
objects acquired when the idea of a ‘household’
had a life raft attached to it.
Perhaps one day she will be in place, perfectly set
and equipped to fit somewhere,
but as yet she finds herself unable to write
about certain uncertain matters.
Could have pawned the typewriter.
Could have found less impoverished lovers.
Could have paid the storage bill
before it was emptied,
Should have retrieved the typewriter,
would have then rewritten her life
from a muddled manuscript of memory
forsaking all other versions.
Atomic bombs are dropped on babies
Humanity is thrown out of the door
Humanity is dead. Humanity is no more
There are too many aggressive and demoniac atrocities
Wars are heartless, bestial, perilous, satanic and deadly
The hypocrisy is clearly obvious and real
This is the end of the world for many
For too many innocent human beings. Yes, this is a big deal
Human lives are no longer important
The streets are painted with real red blood
Oh! My goodness, this is worse than a major flood
Homes and buildings are pulverized. No need to pay rent
Nobody wants a genuine ceasefire
Because emotions and feelings are on fire
Poor babies never had a chance
Poor victims never have a chance
Poor pregnant women never had a chance
Poor weak elders have no chance
Humanity is mephitic. Humanity is no more
The doors and the windows of hell are wide open
There’s no hope. There’s no darn heaven
No need to say more and more
Bombs fall like dead autumnal leaves
Terror is ubiquitous and death is inevitable
Nobody wants to turn the table
They are all liars, criminals and thieves
This is no lie because they are all over the news
This is beyond fear. This is beyond sadness. I refuse
To listen to these well dressed anchors who are lying
Let me close my eyes and cover my ears
What a pity! I feel sorry for the babies
The toddlers, the youngsters, the teenagers
The men and women who die due to abject atrocities
It’s a shame. The criminals are now over-explaining
Perhaps this society should go back fighting with spears
Because the rivers and the seas were not so dirty and bloody
I can’t listen to the racist criminals and the evil bandits who are applauding
One again, let me close my eyes and cover my ears
In my body, there’re no more tears
Humanity is dead. Death is ubiquitous
The hypocrites and the bad politicians are truly dangerous
Toxic, strange, selfish, Machiavellian and inhumane
Hell is everywhere. The world is insane
Yet the Sun is shining
And the Moon is sadly watching.
Copyright © November 2023, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Translations of Urdu couplets and poems by Momin Khan Momin
Perhaps
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The cohesiveness between us, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Our solemn oaths of faithfulness, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
If something happened that was not to your liking,
the shrinking away that produces silence, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Listen, the sagas of so many years, the promises you made amid time's onslaught,
which you now fail to mention, you may remember or perhaps not.
These new resentments, those old rehashed complaints,
these lighthearted and displeasing stories, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
Some seasons ago we shared love and desire, we shared joy ...
That we once were dear friends, you may have, perhaps, forgot.
Now if we come together, by fate or by chance, to express old loyalties ...
Our every shared breath, all our sighs and regrets, you may remember, or perhaps not.
***
Being
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You are so close to me
that no one else ever can be.
NOTE: There is a legend that the great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib offered all his diwan (poetry collections) in exchange for this one sher (couplet) by Momin Khan Momin. Does the couplet mean "be as close" or "be, at all"? Does it mean "You are with me in a way that no one else can ever be?" Or does it mean that no one else can ever exist as truly as one's true love? Or does this sher contain an infinite number of elusive meanings, like love itself?
Being (II)
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You alone are with me when I am alone.
You are beside me when I am beside myself.
You are as close to me as everyone else is afar.
You are so close to me that no one else ever can be.
Keywords/Tags: Translation, Urdu, Momin Khan Momin, love, uplifting, visionary, spiritual, soulmate, close, closeness, unity, farness, afar, memory, remembrance, forgetfulness, remember, forget, forgot, time, silence
The shadow song:
Existing, but not alive.
To live a life without self-awareness and understanding,
Can never know or be truly alive!
Not even aware perhaps that they are but only
Life’s shadows, of where their alternative life should be.
The Shadow Song - in motion —
I am the darkness in which this world of yours hides in.
And yet I am only a lonely shadow from the western sky.
Nothing else is, but I, only I, can exist as the One and
The All in this space which is everything.
Not even time itself can touch my gaping void.
For one must have mind and thought to make motion.
There is only me, and I shall never be.
White Wolf
Come..
fly with me
beyond,beyond
imagination
Capture..
emotion's
aurora
from the firmanent
Watch..
images descend
. as crystallised
inspiration
Bathe..
in a tide
of surreal
tranquility
through a personal lens
perspective's gaze
alters
as blotting paper
absorbs impressions
learned & unlearned
from mainstream
or the back lanes
or perhaps stand still
&yet
driven by this creative itch,
each day
this word tapestry
must stitch.
Spartan Riches
by Odin Roark
Creation asks not for center stage
How plentiful these quiet treasures
Demanding not a price
Void of glitter
Gaff
And loud acclaim drowning
Senses
Reason
Imagination pursues instead
Honesty’s nod
The up and down gesture
Everyday patrons volunteer
On discovering virtuosity’s subtle essence
Just as a flower needs but sunshine and moisture
So too the Van Goghs of everyday living
Patiently await man’s simple willingness
To emote with the light of a smile
Perhaps even tears
Knowing as in nature
Creative efforts spawn
Reciprocal wavelengths of appreciation
Finding respite wherever
An honest heart and mind’s tuning fork awaits
Often
Creation senses not the obvious
Artistry’s honorific slips
Obliging a personage quest
Unaware resultant luminary trappings
Often engender insecurities
Petrifying life’s inner sanctum
That place where inception seeds the unknown
Bestows lasting memories
Where both a mother’s caress
And the brush strokes of oiled color
Add to the canvas of expectancy’s
Freely shared gifts and rewards
Too late at times
Inspiration succumbs to notoriety’s demands
Obliging a servitude to fame
Risking enslavement
Either to gilded prisons
Or the bridled razor wire of power
Needing to gallop down a home stretch
Willingly adding to the blood-laden turf
Determined the day’s finish line
Will provide yet another carrot
To satiate the bestial appetite for superiority
Fortunately
A meaningful number
Manage to avoid a system’s pandering
Obviating trophydom’s trap
Existing solely as creation’s flow
Appeasing those whose hearts and minds
Seek but revelation of impact
A seeding of possible enlightenment
Respecting the virtue of namelessness
So goes the Spartan riches
Accumulating with anonymous authenticity
Giving it’s own reciprocal nod
Back to that which inspires creativity
All without demands
Without price
You find a place where
the sun reaches across
the river with a little feeble
warmth to rest on your face.
Soon it will be the shortest day.
The shadows are cold
and stretch out like fingers,
pinching at what light
you've managed to keep
flickering within yourself.
You find something pleasant
to think about, a memory
perhaps, a fancy,
anything to put into
an old heater to keep
you warm and give out
a comforting glow.
It is then, images begin
to take form in flame
as something in you stirs
and writes itself in ash
to mark another winter solstice
on the walls of your
hibernating soul.
Slowly I lost myself to time
Painfully I became someone else
I looped the chains upon my wrists
I closed the manacles myself
Dragging the good parts of me piece by piece to be shackled,
Imprisoned.
And prisoners innocent are most dangerous, angry.
Why am I here?!
But I refused to answer.
It was, after all, for the best.
It was, I believed, the only way to love.
Selfless to a fault, my own jailer,
And I stopped being a man beloved.
Perhaps she was never the woman I thought I loved.
Deception is complete when I'm deaf to myself.
But life crawls into spaces abandoned
Life... and by extension, love.
Without a tyrant, the prisoner was freed.
I came back to myself, learning... loving
Who I am. Who I was.
Dreaming who I will be.
And I write... expressing thoughts lofty and base,
I write for me. Selfishly.
Pushcat has gone missing, where on earth could he be?
He usually greets me at the door, miaws as soon as he sees me.
I got him on my birthday, in August last year.
I loved him straight away, striped like a tiger, black and grey.
Pussy had died three months before,at only eight years old.
I found her under the deck by following my nose. Natural causes I suppose.
Not nearly as affectionate, she was white with black ears and toes.
Kept to herself more, while he will kiss me on the nose.
He's almost a year now and strutting his stuff.
Perhaps if I had taken him to the vet..I would not now be writing this poem.
No!...Wait....
He's home!!
I taste coffee on your lips
And I like it,
But I'm looking for magic.
I hear your breath
And feel it on my cheek
Like a warm caress.
I kiss you.
Your tongue tastes like silky honey,
But I'm looking for magic.
You kiss me.
Your mouth smells like coffee,
And I pull away to look at you.
Your eyes are beautiful
And I want to kiss them, too,
But in them I see myself,
And I see that I'm not beautiful at all.
I always wanted perfection
And I always dreamed of magic,
But magic is not here
And I'm not perfect.
I want you to kiss me.
I want you to look in my eyes
And see what I see
Because now I know it can never be.
Perhaps there's some magic in that.