Long Sappho Poems
Long Sappho Poems. Below are the most popular long Sappho by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sappho poems by poem length and keyword.
If our love is a sin, then heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinning as ours— Radclyffe Hall
Explore themes of love and identity
Of Stephen Gordon’s innate sense of masculinity
Since a child, her desire, ‘women’
The idea that if love is considered a sin
The unfolding of a female sexual invert
The act of loving must be a tender selfless act, revert?
Love itself is not inherently sinful or
complexities of love, we shan’t ignore
But rather the circumstances surrounding it
Misfits from Malvern to London and then to Paris!
Ira furor brevis, the frailty, taboo and strife
Fellow q***r characters, all walks of life
From the *sapphic salon hostess Valérie Seymour
To the 'miserable army' and more
of outcasts that frequents the 'merciless
Drug-dealing, death-dealing' bars of Montmartre
Written in another time, still support and solidarity to
generations of LGBTQ genre
*Sapphic is an umbrella term for same-gender loving women or woman-aligned people, including lesbians and bisexual+ women. It is used to describe topics, activities, and ideas related to same-sex attraction among women. The term can also refer to the Greek lyric poet Sappho.
These are epigrams by Michael R. Burch
Road to Recovery
by Michael R. Burch
It’s time to get up and at ’em
and out of this rut that I’m sat in.
A man may attempt to burnish pure gold, but who can think to improve on his mother?—Mahatma Gandhi, translation by Michael R. Burch
A mother's heart is God's ultimate masterpiece.—St. Therese of Lisieux, translation by Michael R. Burch
Fools call wisdom foolishness.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch
I discovered the Goddess in your body's curves and crevasses.—attributed to Sappho, translation by Michael R. Burch
Warmthless beauty attracts but does not engage us; it floats like hookless bait.—Capito, translation by Michael R. Burch
Experience is the best teacher but a hard taskmaster.—Michael R. Burch
Time will tell, as it always does in the end.—Michael R. Burch
Time flies, until it's flown.—Michael R. Burch
How can the Bible be "infallible" when from beginning to end it commands and condones but never once condemns the satanic institution of slavery?—Michael R. Burch
Atheists give God the "benefit of the doubt."—Michael R. Burch
The enemy is not without, but within our gates; it is with our own complacence, our own folly, our own cutthroats and criminals that we must contend. — Cicero, translation by Michael R. Burch
Let me bend the world to my will
though it resist still.
—Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: epigrams, road, recovery, rut, Sappho, goddess, beauty, wisdom, mother, god, teacher, time, bible
is solely known for "brainwashing,"
Larichos was Sappho's brother
A mere wine pourer she spoke of him
while he wishes to marry I will
undermine him.
A circle of women might he
wish and long to have
that he is foolish and his wants shall be
his undoing, spoke Sappho of her brother
who wished to date Aimsir FraochÚn a
woman of the wealth.
Sappho and the woman collaberated to fool
Larichos, she told him she'd marry him if
he bought her ten gold bars
to create the tradition of them together
he did so for along time and when he
became concern of his own ego he asked her
how many gold bars had he givin her
she anwsered100 and said we have established a togetherness
for ten days, he than asked her to return them
as he was unsatisfied she refused
so Larichos went to Aphrodite and told her the story
Ahphodite said that only a inspiring frenzy and ecstacy could
make a man so brainwashed
so she suduced him to see if he was as great a lover
as he spoke.
Days later Aphodite went to Aimmmmmmsir and Sappho
she found them speaking as they were one
she placed a spell on them and condemed them to a n island in the sea.
a lonely poet
adrift
yet
riding the crest
of a wave
strange to say
a success
in a patriarchal
age
twists of enigma
in
the joys
of imagination
multifaceted
intuition
eloquent
plain darts
of
detailed
fragments
spaced&
stressed
time then
time now
day in
day out
lest we
forget
persuasion
this way
& that
where
peace reigns
and
feet
move
as
we
dance
in
Spring sunlight
experience
shows
what you
please
and often
ask
yet
remains
forever
in memory
(Hardly anything is known about Sappho, but no-one seriously
doubts her greatness as a poet. She lived on the Greek island
of Lesbos (hence “Lesbian”) in the seventh century BC. All that
has survived of her work is a scattering of scraps, but even this
meagre evidence establishes her as one of the foremost poets
of all time.)
V.
The sunlight is old now,
and losing its fine force.
Beneath the turgid moon, then,
let young women take their places.
As the silent globe swells up,
her sisters, the silver stars,
show their little faces.
Slow, slow, naked feet
together pound the earth.
Our circle is a living altar,
and grass fronds kiss our calves.
Just for one night the moon is full,
glorious in her loveliness,
dancing her own white path
on the sparkling dark sea.
Dance together
under the moon,
Aphrodite's daughters!
Dance with us,
goddess of love,
with the subtly shining hair.
You are mine, fair Atthis,
and will never be this fair again.
When drum and tambourine
have captured us and wiped us clean
of self, we will make love.
In each other's arms,
breathing, sleeping,
with silent moon gliding ...
why, then, am I weeping?
WILDE had a mirror
that mocked the ugliness and
deified the beauty...
Whitman had the pure
mirror of the waters with
that exalted naturalness
of the human...
Rousseau hid
in the hidden mirror of
caves of the soul, to
understand the world...
DALI everyone refuted with
mirror design
the absurd...
Sappho was mirrored in the
lust and in the wealth of the
sensory pleasure...
Wallada had the mirror
of love, so free
as existential....
me poor apprentice
of poet, I only do
and did attempted to decipher so much
beauty in so many shades... !
CATULLUS TRANSLATIONS
Catullus LXXXV: 'Odi et Amo'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I hate. I love.
You ask, 'Why not refrain?'
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
2.
I hate. I love.
Why? Heavens above!
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
3.
I hate. I love.
How can that be, turtledove?
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
Catullus CVI: 'That Boy'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See that young boy, by the auctioneer?
He's so pretty he sells himself, I fear!
Catullus LI: 'That Man'
This is Catullus's translation of a poem by Sappho of Lesbos
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I'd call that man the equal of the gods,
or,
could it be forgiven
in heaven,
their superior,
because to him space is given
to bask in your divine presence,
to gaze upon you, smile, and listen
to your ambrosial laughter
which leaves men senseless
here and hereafter.
Meanwhile, in my misery,
I'm left speechless.
Lesbia, there's nothing left of me
but a voiceless tongue grown thick in my mouth
and a thin flame running south...
My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water
till they swim in darkness.
Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness,
whatever it is that incapacitates you.
By any other name it's the nemesis
fallen kings, empires and cities rue.
Catullus 1 ('cui dono lepidum novum libellum')
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To whom do I dedicate this novel book
polished drily with a pumice stone?
To you, Cornelius, for you would look
content, as if my scribblings took
the cake, when in truth you alone
unfolded Italian history in three scrolls,
as learned as Jupiter in your labors.
Therefore, this little book is yours,
whatever it is, which, O patron Maiden,
I pray will last more than my lifetime!
Catullus XLIX: 'A Toast to Cicero'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cicero, please confess:
You're drunk on your success!
All men of good taste attest
That you're the very best—
At making speeches, first class!
While I'm the dregs of the glass.
Keywords/Tags: Catullus, Latin, English Translation, Rome, Roman, hate, love, pain, man, boy, Cicero, novel, book, books, god, gods, heaven
She who perceived what dusky tones to lyric
visions and visitations drifting sea beats
her obsidian deep in bowels of rock
mermen watching neat
River spirit maidens ask freedom's turquoise
within midnight's black grimace God gleams white light
against rainfall sky her fair deploy was
Love's only employ
Sappho's obsidian dust incubating
on Earth ~ Aphrodite's coal its sound inert
no beetles can roam its aura's fast converts
implacable hurts —
Muse awaited no crown pharoah’s lips fleshy
in cosmic time concept will bell excell
grecian pudding spiced hot on cypress table
obsidian spell
Soft dew drops upon unbound black hair curling
sprinkling coloured leaves of body's flesh tree
jet night pale blossoms wrapping barefeet pitch
woman cracked stone itch …
Amidst obsidian leaking indigo
Sappho's loamy dream creating blackout moon
sleepy swoons across mossy floor encircle
legs entwine quirkle —
Hierophants composed illusion stories
she did not believe, dark related truth’s scout
as sure as fire heats every sunset closing
Sappho’s stone reigns clout ~
Heir on Fire
by Michael R. Burch
I wanted to be Shelley’s heir,
Just fourteen years old, and consumed by desire.
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
I went to work—pale, laden with care:
why wouldn’t the words do as I aspired,
when I wanted to Keats’s heir?
My verse seemed neither here nor there.
How the hell did Sappho tune her lyre?
And why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
The journals laughed at my childish fare.
Had I bitten off more than eagles dare
when I wanted to be Byron’s heir?
My words lacked Rimbaud’s savoir faire.
My prospects were looking quite dire!
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
At fifteen I committed my poems to the fire,
calling each goddess a liar.
I just wanted to be Shakespeare’s heir.
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?
Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch, age 25
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight—
it's all right.
My newborn son, cease sighing,
softly, slowly close your eyes,
purse your tiny lips
and kiss the crisp, cool night
a warm goodbye.
Fierce yet gentle fragment,
the better part of me,
why don't you dream a dream
deep as eternity,
until sunrise?
Frail bit of elfin magic
with eyes of brightest blue,
sleep now lines your lashes,
the sandman beckons you …
please don't fight —
it's all right.
My Doctir’s Excus
by Michael R. Burch, age 8
I can eggsplain why Im sick.
Sick as a brick
and my stule is thick.
I came to school
and I caught it from Rick.
Now I’m sick as a brick
and my stule is thick.
I cant do my homework
becus Im sick.
I cant take tests
becus Im a mess.
Blame Rick, the prick!
—signed, my doctir Ann Onimus
PS, Thurd grade is hard enuff on kids nervs and bad graids make my simptoms worse! Liten up, doctir’s orders!
Keywords/Tags: Heir, fire, Muse, Shelley, Keats, Sappho, Byron, Rimbaud, Shakespeare, student, sick, school, homework, desire, work, words, verse, poems
happiness wets me as
in torture,
drip by drip,
dropwise...
impossible to drink
the sea...
how impossible
is to count its sand...
herald birds
of spring,
mosquitoes sent
from rains,
dry leaves signs
of autumn,
advertiser swallows
of summer....
your love extinguished
from me while i
burned me with love...
Your love was only dry.
and mine only flood...