Long Semantic Poems
Long Semantic Poems. Below are the most popular long Semantic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Semantic poems by poem length and keyword.
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
for Prithwin
first
left downstroke
start from the top
plane out
let the long anchor tip roof-line curve sharply upwards
at the stern down-end
pile it in stuffed in the centre
leave the bottom open
that’s where the studded boot rightly fits
Over billowing transmuted waters
the haze lifts now and then
winds amber green waft and skim
with the late light caught shimmering
no albatross circles the mast
guilt is pure guilt without wanton arrows
there are no signs of land
but the proffered hand
the wanderer knows no words of his own
Reach - disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Can he yet placate asylum
echo the cluck of a poaching North American coot
nestling amidst Eurasian breeding reeds
taut bunching yarrow rushes
an embattled haven
against majestic swan ships
sleek velvety rich drake
peacockish barnacle goose
come in early from the cold
Let the dards of Orion spell syllables of ease
through the congested smudge of yore
contorted fantizi ideograms
cursory calligraphic long dripping brush strokes
pale to pinyin
Simplified
the exile gasps for instant phonemic breath
under choppy waves of stuttering tongues
racy blades
extirpate langue crucify parole
mix meaning into heady synaesthesiac brew
loss of face is a loss of noodles
develop equals hair
Could René Char’s Zeit Geist
have diagnosed the myna’s Kâla-Purusha
Reach – disgorge with your nails
Walls that concuss entrails
Resources
1. This poem has to do with a Bengali translator’s first encounter with René Char at his residence The French poet questioned his translator on the meaning of “le dard d’Orion” in
his poem: “Jeu muet”. The translator interpreted the phrase as having to do with
astronomy and thus rendered it as “kâla Purusha” (Zeit Geist or literally as in
Hindu mythology: the Primal Being at the beginning of time). René Char then
picked a certain variety of the cactus flower in his garden and said that the
French “phrase” applied to that particular flower.
2. The imagery in the poem also relates to the simplification of classical Chinese
characters (fantizi) by the Peoples Republic of China in the early fifties and the
alphabetisation of Chinese characters, known as “pinyin” as opposed to the Wade and Yale systems. The simplified characters produced certain semantic anomalies.
©T. Wignesan, Paris – May 3, 2009
Why am I missing you in Wyomissing
In Wyomissing where WiFi waves warp Whitman's words
I'm wiki-wishing scrolling through digitized déjà vu
Mississippi .mp3s Mississauga .gifs Missy Elliott remixes
Mishmash of missed misplaced hyperlinks missing persons
Y-chromosomes yearning in Wyomissing DNA double-helix twisting
Your LOLs a lyric lipslock softly #hissing history rewriting
From Issigeac to Missouri's twisted Twitter feed Insta-stories fleeting
Absence makes the heart grow fonder indeed™ (patent pending).
Persisting thoughts insistent as pop-up ads spam in the place where I lived
Roaming data plans streaming memes gone mad mad libs mad love
Enlisting Siri Alexa cosmic GPS Googling "how to forget ex"
To where your heart might choose to compress decompress or stay perplexed
In Wyomissing I sigh and I sit bit by bit byte by byte
Sky vast as the cloud no storage limit limit does not exist
Committing to journey's jumbled algorithm rhythmic logarithm
To find you love my heart's lost rhythm arrhythmia of the soul
Dismissing doubts like spam keep on insisting
Our love's a flame forever resisting
Extinguishing persisting through trials by fire(wall)
Never desisting crossing all area codes morse codes zip codes
Twisting paths and listless constellations celestial navigation
I'll travel far ignoring Terms & Conditions contractual obligations
Transmitting love my heart's submitting committing omitting
To find you no more words omitting remitting or permitting
So here I am in Wyomissing's embrace interface about-face
Memories of kisses a lingering trace copy-paste ctrl+z can't erase
From Mississippi to Issigeac's charm disarm false alarm
I'll roam the world semantics disarm semantic fields semantic yields
But as I search for truth's revelation information overload
A twist so dark beyond explanation quantum entanglement implodes
In my quest I find a terse text next perplexed hex
From you my love "New phone who dis" Dismissed missed kissed-off list.
In Wyomissing where dreams unravel travel advisory
I learned the truth your heart's new travel Marvel universe multiverse
My heart now shattered can't keep dismissing missing hissing
Y R U ghosting me in Wyomissing Existing in digital abyss sing
Y am I missing U in Wyomissing?
Life As Perceived Reality
We believe and think what beings we are;
Juiced up ready to expel our seeds
to create new generations of replications.
Each with different bumps and rinds divided within,
but in the end, can we really tell one from the other?
What history was written? What tales were told?
Where would our essence go next?
The lemon and lime ponder the finality
Destiny takes us through each vector
and we live life as if it matters.
Reward and struggle makes the day important
to the ones who stay.
Why-wherefore queries would often seem
to lead to equivalent questions but from different questioners.
shall we all arrive at the same conclusions in circulations?
Semantic variables confuse and dissociate until the "why"
split like a atom becomes a force to be reckoned with,
an uncontrollable exhortation which like the wild stallion
is difficult to tame.
We excel in greatness born of trauma, ending in trauma
the pluralistic motivator of the human race
without which, all would all die as a mundane abstractions.
There has to be, more than soul malnourishment
or psyche incompatibilities that fire the ovens of our discontent.
But for the millennium of existence
man's emotional evolution progresses little,
All of the incarnations and soul needs
have been left unsatisfied and yet we still hunger
for a messiah to complete our missions.
.
The free will of maneuverability concedes
the interpretation to mean a narrow winded road
with little room to avoid oncoming traffic;
an open highway with eternal destinations
that never seem to close the open gaps
between the beginning and the end,
until one learns that the beginning was the end
Glory in goodness, as darkness will surely follow.
The earth sends this message with each rotation
In radiant awe and heart hurting sadness
Possibilities are endless it is said.
Once chosen the now becomes the beginning
and the possibilities again become
endless until the final second
when it all ends as prescribed by the prescriber.
Perhaps then, one may see clearly
what was before us all the time
and is thankful that the curtain
finally closes on the succession of plays.
I can hardly wait reading welter of books...
courtesy Karen Windle a gift horse
ponied up late afternoon May18th, 2020
over roan nay bore lee volition.
Unbeknownst how she raised (cane),
and loudly wrapped outside the door
every ounce of her eighty plus pounds
slip of elderly lady petite bow legged
spry late 60's though older looking gal
argh – I expect unpleasant fallout after
piercing eyes unexpectedly discover
references made regarding aged waif,
who inexplicably signalled presence
in toto i.e. presents to comprehend, a
bounty, nah, not worth causing mutiny
nevertheless heave on lee delight hup
pea zing helter skelter discombobulated
alienation courtesy coronavirus lockdown
concomitantly venues to borrow books
puts serious and perilous bind aggravated
assault upon cerebral cortex regarding a
forced hiatus deprivation to binge read
reduced to peruse the daily toilet paper
no stimulation for imagination to indulge
magical mystery tour thwarted helter skelter
ye silently ask rather infer "what me bored?"
Despite severely circumscribed choices
whiling away hours, who knows lockdown
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
warrants near indefinite closure accessing
literary material buzzfeeding noggin,
an egg gone eye zing torture rankles
healthy predilection to binge osmotically
passion for written word all the while
authors unbeknownst evoke quintessential
pleasant provocation dredging up
10,000 leagues below the jewel bedecked
cease son bewitched (Alder time) tremendous
metaphorical pristine hinterlands
Matthew Scott's vernacular semantic
hodgepodge orientation withered away
figurative gripes wrath and rail against
series of unfortunate events ala defiant
Lemony Snicket, when despair plummeted
to all time low, who should unwittingly
telepathically hear plaintive SOS sent
none other than intrepid Karen Windle,
who's mysteriously rapping announced
dog send appearance bore deliverance
(cue Banjos), where ecstasy didst delve
where still waters run deep, nevertheless
welcome respite when printed material
weekly magazines offered scant respite.
K379 and K380 of Canto XXXVIII of the THIRUKKURAL, Translated with Commentary
(Just a note on the translations to say that, even if G.U. Pope did more to research and elucidate the THIRUKKURAL, his translations - with some exceptions - bent on rhyme and stilted structure, require further interpretation and are sometimes needlessly obscure.
W. H. Drew and John Lazarus's translations are generally quite clear, but tend sometimes towards needless expatiation. In my own rendering, I have tried to keep to the semantic ordering and grammatical structure wherever possible.
Lest non-Tamils unfamiliar with the Kurals think that the author Thiruvalluvar also used punctuation marks found in the translations, would do well to note that Tamil writers of yore never had this bother to cope with. Besides, as Pope points out, the short and long vowels like "o" and "O" were undifferentiated in the original; now and then however the dot over the "l" (there are three in the Tamil alphabet) was used to indicate the use of "l" as "ela" or "la".) T. Wignesan
K379: nanraangkaal nallavaak kaanpavar
anraangkaal allal paduvathu evan
When good things come, men view them all as gain,
When evils come, why then should they complain? ( Transl. G.U. Pope)
How is it that those, who are pleased with good fortune, trouble themselves
when evil comes (since both are equally the decree of fate)? (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
When everything goes well, we tend to enjoy life (for what it is worth);
When things take a turn for the worse, why should we whine? (Transl. T. Wignesan)
K380: uulin peruvali yaavula matruonru
cuulinum thaanmunth thurum
What powers so great as those of Destiny? Man's skill
Some other thing contrives; but fate's beforehand still. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
What is stronger than fate? If we think of an expedient (to avert it), it will itself
be with us before (the thought). (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
Is there force mightier than fate? It will forestall the very thought of one who tries to dodge it. ( Transl. T. Wignesan)
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Milton’s Paradise Lost is a book I sometimes dip into. For modern
readers it does not lend itself to a quick browse. It’s pretty clear from the
start who dunnit.
My version in paperback contains insightful explanatory notes.
Apparently “Science” in the Tempter’s words“ O Sacred,
Wise and Wisdom giving Plant, Mother of Science”,* being derived from the Latin verb “scire”, really means what we now understand as “knowledge”.
This note seems to be for the benefit of such innocents who are
unaware of the process of diachronic semantic change, and who
may also entertain misgivings about nuclear power plants.
Newton’s apple might jolt us into considering matters of considerable
gravity.
Today we are concerned more about fallout than with the Fall, more
with the atom than with Adam.
Science is not primarily concerned with moral questions, yet
we have all benefited from science. That science has also
furnished Man with the means of self-extermination and involves environmental pollution on a global scale we must accept as collateral damage, call it what you will.
Science is not primarily concerned with moral questions.
Even though scientific knowledge is based on the axiom that our sensory perceptions, the experiments, observations and theories of science cohere,
being phenomena in one and the same time-space continuum, a scientist
should not be diverted from his or her quest by troublesome thoughts about extraneous factors, be they social, political or moral in nature, that impinge on the awareness of one indivisible reality.
In Milton’s day “science” simply meant “knowledge”.
Milton was concerned with the problem of good and evil, the relationship of God and Man, the conflict between Truth and Mammon, not with the complex realities of our modern industrial high-tech world.
Perhaps cogito ergo sum, that premise of the modern scientific method, also has a moral dimension.
Milton’s Paradise Lost is a book I occasionally dip into.
Who am I talking to
as I rehearse my memory stories,
shadow voices,
echoes,
and my own heroic victim analysis?
How snugly language fits
within karma's great chain of becoming
Earth's prophetic saintly sage
lecturing Othered parasitic peers
Living off malnourished Mother's
ambivalently valued,
too often ego-possessed
yet slavishly steadfast
bicameral creative mind
and reconnecting heart
and communing bilateral root
System seeking just right peaceful race
amusing pace
sage sacred place
Bicameral lungs
seeking midway co-gravitating energies
of Yang's grace face of Yin-squared win
bilateral neural processor
Ego-voicing within egocenter
Id-choicing within anthrocenter
SuperEco-dancing YinMind/YangBody Earthcenter,
polypathic
multisystemic
0-souled chi
1-identity...
My owned HereNow listening
incarnating SpaceTime-self unfolding
Triumvirate Tiered post-Freudian sacred stages
Sacred musing
EarthTribe's perennial ringing
singing
dancing EarthTree of Life
Rooting down into Dark TreeCore Vortex
Death promising integrity's ReBirth
without aversive grasping,
no warring against life's composting light,
when wrestling with death's night vision,
balancing Left with Right...
How do my pre-languaged
Universally Intelligent and Informating
natural systemic cells and organs,
embodied skin embrace of chi-center soul,
speak my Left-brain semantic thoughts
of past revisited
with future hoped for
and feared
belong to
longed for
since all past Elder enculturing regenerations
stepped into this HereNow
embyronic enbrightenment
to light past's future Nature/Spirited memories?
If any sage outside
listens to internal musing questions,
revolving hypothetical inclusive
resonant win/win resolutions,
these prayers for self-healing co-redemption
re-seed Earth's exegetical ecotherapy
absorbing my own Ego's dissonant pathology.
Across the Atlantic ocean
They have a pedantic notion
Quip us Brits have a frantic lisp
Did slip..meant to say chip not crisp
Semantic antics causing a commotion
Misunderstand our land’s devotion
To the sensory explosion that is a crisp
So why the linguistic demotion
Respond to across the pond & beyond
Have donned a wig of blonde
Seem fond of being conned
They need to be told
The reason Brits abscond from the fold
Will break the mould
Skip this blip and let rip
A chip is hot and if not.. is cold
Such umami gold is actually factually
A crisp!
Our gung ho American foe
Will still crow..slimy Limeys
We’re the aficionado…so no bravado
Must surely know a chip is always
Made I’m afraid of purely potato
(unless I guess if its chips at a casino)
Displayed for trips in dips
Not just crud dud spud chips
Bud..could be made of wheat
Sworn am often torn
Could be swayed by corn
Synthetic aesthetic can’t beat
Heart attack in a pack food p*rn
If Polenta is the mentor.. its a chip
But if some parsnip you did flip
In oil then it is definitely…definitively a crisp
Got a hunch that if for
Lunch.. earlier at brunch
Or just for a munch
Thick or thin as a wisp
If it does go crunch
Then it’s crisp
Not being trippy.. dippy or too lippy
Don’t be hasty and haughty
Nothing beats..tasty treats
Seriously salty.. deliriously naughty eats
That's why we say crispy.. not chippy
P.S ..The only crispy beast feast
Where’s there is no hackling
Tackling or shackling
A snack as a chip or a crisp
No cackling…is when it’s crackling
Oops somehow a new row hatching..isn't
Fried pig skin..a pork scratching
But Colombian cronies are dispatching
Such phony baloney..there's no matching
The show ponies that are chicharrones
By the hearth whether given stolen or made at this center piece where things are shared is a recipe to inspire while the imagination played where telling of the stories leaped and flared songs are sung there as a drink to the tongue for protection warmth and a place to eat around the fire so much thought has sprung Like a fiery pulse the poetical heartbeat even in flickering embers lies a romantic standing to close you may be burned but never cold so be the good semantic rage like the fire that consumed and yearned