Long Porters Poems
Long Porters Poems. Below are the most popular long Porters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Porters poems by poem length and keyword.
There was a gibble gabble woman
In our neighborhood when I was a child.
She sung gossip the way
Porters sling suitcases, trying to break people
Her tongue was fast, and mean, and she had no shame
We learned quickly she was fun to rile, and quick to spread joy
When we got older we noticed she was near-sighted too.
See? We would say, pointing, “There they are now.”
We knew full well her eyes could not make out the people.
But she took us at our lying words, and spread her powerful poisons
We laughed that she could not see the end of her own finger,
Yet she believed us; we relished giving her misinformation.
It was our mission to send her on gossip-filled excursions
During the summers of our 6th and 7th grade years.
I am sad to say we could not twist her up or wind her the next year.
She had died a pauper’s death. We were the only two at her funeral.
Here’s to the doormen,
The porters, the waiters,
The plumbers, the cabbies,
The exterminators…
Here’s to the teachers,
The nannies, the nurses,
Performers and artists
And writers of verses…
Here’s to the athletes,
The mailmen, reporters,
The chefs and the police force
And climate supporters…
Here’s to the builders
And tour guides and cleaners
And research assistants
And medical screeners…
Here’s to repairmen
And bakers and drivers
And farmers and shepherds
And all of the strivers
Who put in the effort,
Most times, to the letter,
To help make our lives
(And their own) so much better.
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
CIRCA 1954
I'm sitting in a railway carriage
this old steam train, it's almost set to go
It won't be long before
we're rockin' to and fro
There's passengers all hanging out the windows
to wish family a fond goodbye
There's porters on the platform pushing trolleys full of luggage
every now and then they're briskly walking by
Now we're finally moving
this train is rolling down the track
It will be a week or two
before I'll be coming back
clickety clack clickety clack clckety clack
Gotta shut the window this ole steam train is
puffing lots of smoke
there's really not much option
'cause there's a chance that I might choke
clickety clack clickety clack clickety clack
There's a pang or two of hunger, wander down the passage
to the diner get a bite to eat
Then i wander back to my carriage
to resume my comfy seat
clickety clack clickety clack clickety clack
I look around. there's large black and white photos
that adorn the carriage wall
There's talk and laughter amongst these happy travellers
no mobile phone distraction from an international call
clickety clack clickety clack clickety clack
Five hours passed we arrive at our city destination
I'm fascinated by all this flashing city light
But most important there is Grandma
we hug each other with delight
There are gunshots firing.
Soldiers continuously dying.
Local people that have done no harm
Are suddenly filled with dreading alarm.
By the very end of the twinkling stars and the night,
The whole village has been set alight
Some have been taken.
Those left behind are still shaken.
The only thing making them glad they’ve survived
Are the tears in their family’s eyes.
A child inside hunches over his school desk,
Strangely oblivious to the whole mess.
He’s so wrapped up in his own tasks
That when morning rolls in, he forgets to ask
Where his parents are.
But a child can only follow a thought so far.
So when someone comes and puts a gun in his hand,
All he thinks he can do is agree with the man.
17/11/17
Child Soldiers is a huge problem in the world today, especially in the continent of Africa.They're forced to take part in wars and conflicts, forced to kill, and commit other acts of violence.Others are used as cooks, porters, messengers, informants, spies, basically anything their commanders want them to do. Child soldiers are also often sexually abused.They can be recruited by state or non-state armed forces and are usually forced away from their family. It's a horrible and cruel thing going on in the world which needs to be addressed and dealt with in some way. Hopefully this poem will raise a little bit of awareness. I know it's not very much in the grand scheme of things, but it's all I can do and at least it's better than nothing.
You can take an agency tour
Or a cruise to somewhere exotic.
You can cram onto buses and trains
Or sway on a camel hypnotic.
You can stand on your toes in a group
And try to see o’er the crowd,
To possibly glimpse Mona Lisa
Or hear, though the noise is so loud.
Instead of coming home tired
And set for a week in your bed
Travel the way that’s relaxing
And see more and hear more instead.
I’ve traveled the high Himalayas,
Seen mountains and valleys galore
Trudged with the yaks and porters-
No frostbite, no blizzards, no sores.
From ocean to ocean I’ve wandered
Seen whales and dolphins at play,
Walked in Australia’s Red Center
Without face nets to keep flies away.
I’ve learned much about native people,
Their customs, their habits and lore.
I’ve even been south to Antarctica
And oh, to so many sites more.
And all of this time I was sitting
In my living room lounging chair,
Dressed in pajamas and bathrobe
With books piled around in my lair.
My armchair’s a magical carpet
That whisks me wherever I wish
No planes or lines of security
Just a turn of a page and –whish!
I'll never forget the date, the nineteenth of November
It's etched firmly in my mind, and I'll always remember
It was the day that I had my spinal decompression surgery
And hopefully it would put an end to over a year of misery.
I was struggling to walk, and it was depressing for me
And it was especially frustrating for all my close family
I couldn't go cycling or for walks in the countryside
I just wanted to stay at home and from the world hide.
My journey started with physio, but exercise caused me pain
And I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever be the same again
My MRI scan showed trapped nerves at the base of my spine
I opted for surgery and the surgeon reassured me I'd be fine.
I arrived at the hospital and was under the care of a surgeon
A renowned Consultant Spinal Neurosurgeon, Mr Faizul Hassan
They put surgical socks on me, along with a hospital gown
Then a porter arrived at nine o'clock to take me down.
They put a mask on my face and then I went to sleep
And it was a quarter to one when I was woken by a beep
A nurse then asked me if I wanted a drink of water
And I thought I'm having an op, maybe I'll have it later.
But I'd had my operation, and I didn't feel any leg or back pain
I was so relieved I'd had it done and I could live normally again
The porter took me back to ward one and the nurses were there
It is their kindness I'll never forget and their excellent care.
And all the surgeons too who performed my operation
They've given me my life back; for them I'm full of admiration
And all the porters, admin staff and auxiliary nurses too
They all play a vital part in making dreams come true.
I'm recovering at home now and post op I've got slight pain
I'm so glad to have had it done; I have plenty to gain
My three daughters and my wife are now looking after me
And I consider myself lucky to have such a caring family.
In a fortnight I've got to have staples removed from my back
Then my back won't feel so stiff, and I'll soon be back on track
And I've got to take it easy for a few months and watch what I do
No heavy lifting of any kind and in six weeks return for a review.
Written on the 23rd November 2023
Dedicated to all the staff at the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital in Birmingham. UK.
Let me tell you a story of my night journey;
After a hazardous trip from a far off state
With drooping spirits and waning energy
I alighted at the station to catch the night train
My heart besieged by memories of my home, left behind
Like a drop in the ocean
I quickly merged with the buzzing crowd
In the blinking light of platform lamps
I saw a huge crowd- the young and the old
With baggage heaped on baggage, patiently on wait
Time slouched on at snail’s pace….
At last hearing a long drawn whistle from far
I looked out and saw the train coming, snorting noisily
And halting with a screeching sound
The real ordeal begins as one lifts his suitcase
And pushes his way along with all strength,
Between bags and boxes and people,
And the porters running after you to carry the cargo
Finally I got into the train and occupied my seat among strangers
My mind plagued with fears of thieves and molesters
It was my first journey alone at night
I don’t know when I fell into a deep slumber
It was with the sound of * ‘chai…chai’ that I woke up
The inviting aroma of brewed tea entered my nostrils
At last I have reached my native soil!
I am heading home, every step and every inch
Drawing me closer and closer to my sweet haven
My heart began to pump quicker
I felt like a marooned mariner
Suddenly cast ashore by a rescue boat!
__________________________________
*‘Chai’is a local term in our language for tea !
April. 19. 2022
Form N- Narrative New Poetryy Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
Topic- Journey
~
Picture yourself in a boat on a river
sailing along with the moon in your eyes
Following dreams found to make your heart quiver
with tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly
counting the words in between all your sighs
Seeing her face and it captures you wholly
a girl with kaleidoscope eyes
Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
with waters so clear as your sprits arise
Climbing each step up a marzipan mountain
where rocking-horse people eat marshmallow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
wearing the wings of a young butterfly
Tickling tulips on top of the towers
that grow so incredibly high
Picture yourself on a train in a station
where magazines offer a travel surprise
As luggage arrives in your imagination
with plasticine porters with looking-glass ties
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile
your heart skips a beat in the autumn sunrise
Dreams all come true as she sends you a smile
the girl with kaleidoscope eyes
~
Inspired by the poem Strawberry Fields Forever written by Jennifer Proxenos
Her use of Beatles song lyrics woven into her wonderful poem intrigued me.
So I thought I would try my own using lyrics from The Beatles,
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
The first and last lines in each stanza are from their song, in order
But what of Aysin? She'd be here by three.
What seemed to me the perfect metaphor
(young Ankara was her, old "Stamboul", me)
was not an easy drive - five hours, and more!
It's midnight in my Turkish hotel room.
The good news is, the mosque across the square
is one of Sinan's - soaring through the gloom,
two graceful minarets piercing the air.
The bad news is the teenage Turkish boys,
all three of them, on duty as night porters.
Ingenious at thinking up new ploys,
they pound my door to offer sparkling water
so they can ask more questions. "Is it true
that Elvis is alive? What do you make
in salary? This trip, what will you do?"
"I've got a Turkish girlfriend" Big mistake.
Appalled and fascinated, they demand
to know how come a foreign guy like me
can "pull" a Turkish chick. How was it planned?
I say she'll be arriving here at three.
"What? You, and her - in HERE?" Dark eyes dilate.
"It hasn't been discussed. I just don't know."
"They do like this, the women in the States?"
It's nearly half-past two before they go.
I try to stay awake, but suddenly
there's banging on the door. I must have dozed.
"The Turkish girl is here. She's pretty. See!"
There's Aysin, wearing figure-hugging clothes.
We clinch and kiss. I kick the door to close it,
although this room (no aircon) is a sauna.
Young Aysin is a beauty, and she knows it -
as do three pairs of eyes, around the corner!
She has a brisk and breezy bedside manner.
We'll both sleep here. She's sure I wouldn't harm her.
Comes out of bathroom wearing, like a banner,
both bra and panties under her pyjamas.
But when I want to, I can be persuasive.
Some kisses, compliments ... "Don't be afraid ..."
Although at first her tactics are evasive,
by dawn, impressive progress has been made.
In some old film, Pacino says a thing
that I've found true. We don't recall the sex.
It's details which strike home. Some song she sings,
the angle of her chin, some light effect ...
As things reached crisis-point, she grabbed my arm -
"You hear it?" It was starting! It was there!
The muezzin's song, just like some ancient charm,
was calling Stamboul's faithful to their prayer.