Long Shelley Poems
Long Shelley Poems. Below are the most popular long Shelley by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shelley poems by poem length and keyword.
To be. To feel.
To feel, to love,
To love. To rage,
To rage, to die
Like a good Romantic, or to sleep like this,
Ghosting about
Like a loose plastic bag
That flaps on a windy night
Under a sodium street lamp’s
Eerie all-submerging light.
O Shakespeare, pity us,
O Wilkes, O Pope,
O Voltaire, O Heine,
O Byron. O Shelley,
Shed tears for us.
We have mislaid the liberties
You fought for.
And the truths you taught us.
The Board of Standardisation
In the interests of this nation
Will suppress the imagination.
Like ranters at Hyde Park
We’re still good for a Sunday lark.
Our patrons are benign
as long as we are innocuous.
They’ll allow a little room for satire
(as long as we keep our hats on)
Just to show what sports they are.
Toothless protest’s just a cliché,
But don’t let slip a waspish quip,
Or “Sirrah, Sirrah, the whip!”
Tow the line. That’s fine.
“Douse that prophetic fire by nightfall, sir,
Or the neighbours will complain.”
A D-Notice served on the brain
deadens every joy and pan.
Cross the heart with this red pencil
And with this stencil write:
THE END OF ART.”
O' brief bright voice of Victorian days
Raised amid Guernsey’s winds, on Finedon’s green
At Eton you walked the unstraight ways
Found God's judgment at the age of Nineteen
(Like Burns, Byron and Shelley (before you)
The inspiration that burns like lust
Into the beast's belly (which implored you)
The rage's torrent perverting the trust)
Bridges preserved the music of your art
(You’ve crossed the bridge to another plane)
Though Welland’s waters stilled your youthful heart
Your verse outlived the fame of your name
Romantic visions, sacred longing, spring
Through lines where love and shadows vine
Nineteen short years, yet still your poems sing
In our minds even though they’re frozen in time
O' Dolben, lost before your dawn was through
Your poetic legacy still flowers anew
Hear the clip-clop of iambic beats
Sounds like Shelley with a side of Keats
Is that the scritchity-scratch of a goose quill flickin’
Or just the tippity-tap of some mouse you clickin’..?
So you a prophet poet, regular Marley meets Dylan
Writin’ about oppression and unjust killin’
Shootin' the Sheriff with a Reggae song
Inspirin' your generation with a sing along
A shot of tequila with a wedge of lime
Saddle up and bide your time
Every line don’t need to rhyme
I can give you a million examples
You don't seem like the lyrical type
Kickin' cold turkey with oranges ripe
That's the fruit that rhymes with nothin’
Fresh squeezed it's good for somethin’
Citric flashback, Tang for the brain
Hyperspace wormholes one cannot explain
Sun dippin' below the rim of a rhymeless plateau
Cow skull and cactus, a timeless tableau
In the twilight gloom, a weather-beaten sign
Free Verse Ranch is the place to dine
Gorge on rhyme-free wordplay victuals
Linguistic linguini and cage-free visuals
Specialty of the house: lemon chicken couplet
With a side of mashed onomatopotatoes--plop!
Gravy sloppin’ down slopes like molten lava
Washed down with mugs of fresh-brewed java
Buzzards circlin' the sky in a lazy ellipse
Moon moseyin' in for a total eclipse
Flee in the dark, take a steed for a ride
Jump the split rail fence to the other side
Leap back in time to a buzzin' hive
Looks like the vortex, circa 1995
Can barely think amid the din
Perfect time for the ‘shrooms to kick in
Tie-dyed girl where I left her spinnin' in place
Band still playin' a trippy Drums n Space
But how strange that I cannot feel my face
How did twenty years vanish without a trace?
Tumbleweed twirlin' down the rutted street
Empty rocking chair swayin' skee-reet skee-reet
'Taters still steamin' like a mini-volcano
Room reeks of whiskey stronger than Drano
Spilled orange juice tricklin' a fly-food slurry
Someone cleared outta Free Verse Ranch in a helluva hurry
The clip-clop of iambic beats, Sheriff on my tail
He wouldn't shoot an unrhymed man, would he?
“When the pen falls silent that once danced to the muse’s command and when the poet’s heart no longer beats with rhyme, we realize that the poet in us is dead. It is a sad truth difficult to reckon.” ~ By Poet
Far from the din of madding crowd,
And away from the bustle of city streets,
I withdrew into a solitary spot,
To turn my thoughts into dazzling verse.
Shelley and Shakespeare came in view,
Emily and Eliot fell in line,
Their verse ringing loud and clear,
Their energy fanning fire within
I dreamt of putting proper words,
To clothe my thoughts in striking notes,
Longed to pour my loaded heart,
In powerful verse to move the hearts
But as I started scrawling down,
All that I had stored in hoards –
Ebbed out into mere froth and foam,
Leaving bits of broken thoughts
I sallied out for a stunning theme,
And stroked my pen to put it down,
But topics eluded me one by one,
Unable to decide on what to dwell,
I rummaged my memory for apt words,
And dallied round with lofty themes
Yet nothing other than splintered thoughts,
And hackneyed phrases came alive.
I strained hard to give them life,
And labored in vain to make them rhyme,
‘The Blazing Sun’ and ‘the Brilliant Star’,
Both faded out with no trace of glow.
I envisioned before me the Sacred Mount,
To drink from the fountain gushing down,
But hot lava spurted out,
And the wings of fancy burnt outright!
No Muse appeared to enliven me,
Nor my fantasy lingered long,
The words that once flowed like honey
Dried up with no inspiration, coming to nourish.
Staring blank into the scroll in front,
Unable to scribble even a moving thought,
Like a soldier vanquished in war,
I put away my paper and pen.
I greatly lament the death of the poet in me,
And wonder if ever will have a rebirth!
In appreciation of Jimi Hendrix and Mary Shelley
I am sick of minor authorities,
and my boring life, and those stupid fools -
of my job, order, and priorities.
Strike this mundane existence and these rules.
Rise, Jimi, with your electric guitar.
Ghost of your wild, psychedelic flower -
flash stirring midnight lightning from afar.
Jolt me with true, tempestuous power.
Nature, release me from the doldrums' grip,
Blast away, these cloudless, temperate days.
Come on baby, bring it. Now, let 'er rip.
Light up this flesh, these bones through purple haze,
Like Frankenstein and his beautiful wife,
the lightning and thunder bring this beast life.
I'm amazed at the sun
Shining brightly on high
I'm amazed at the flowers
The bright butterflies
I'm amazed at the mornings
With the coo of the dove
I'm amazed at the charm
And the power of love
It transcends all the beauty
This world has to give
It's what makes us all whole
A reason to live
To bask in the warmth
Of that feeling divine
A feeling unrivalled
Of true love undying
All the great poets
From Shelley to Keats
Have tried to describe it
How it makes us complete
What a terribly sad place
This earth would be
Without someone special
To share what we see
I'm amazed at the mountains
Majestic and tall
I'm amazed at the love
That we share most of all
© Jack Ellison 2012
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
Deep poetry has its own reality
Instrumental in setting the mind free
From the confinement of this mundane world
Transporting us to wondrous realms untold
It is manifested in Blake's poetry
Which uplifts the mind and sets it free
A heaven is seen in a wildflower
Eternity is viewed in an hour
Khayyam's moving finger writes on time's wall
Once written, there's no erasing at all
Rumi's beloved is a different kind
A manifestation of the divine
With Shelley's skylark and Keats nightingale
The music of their birdsong tells the tale
A world beyond what we normally see
The world of deep poetry's reality
REFERENCES:
1) Auguries of Innocence
- William Blake
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
2) The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
- Omar Khayyam
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
3) Oh Beloved
- Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Oh Beloved,
take me.
Liberate my soul.
Fill me with your love and
release me from the two worlds.
If I set my heart on anything but you
let fire burn me from inside.
Oh Beloved,
take away what I want.
Take away what I do.
Take away what I need.
Take away everything
that takes me from you.
4) To a Skylark
- Percy Byshe Shelley
5) Ode to a Nightingale
- John Keats
The above-stated poems reflect the world of deep poetry reality that I have mentioned.
Some get hooked on poetry
By reading Robert Frost
Or Dickinson or Poe
Or others whom their paths have crossed.
In college I read Coleridge,
Byron, Shelley,Whitman, Pound,
T.S. Eliot and Wordsworth,
All in Norton’s, nicely bound.
But in truth, what got me started
Was less lofty, though enticing –
More like turning from the cake
So I could focus on the icing.
For my intro into rhyming
(If you don’t count Mother Goose),
Were the silly stories written
By that master, Dr. Seuss.
I was lifted and delighted
By each word upon each page;
Though he also drew the pictures,
It was language that engaged.
Every rhyme and all the rhythm
Seeped by suction to my veins
And they flowed into the depths
Where the important stuff remains.
So to Dr. Seuss I owe a debt.
He changed the way I’m wired
And I wonder if he realized
All the poets he inspired.
The Youthful Month of June
Hummingbirds hover amid the fragrant air
O’er honeysuckle flowers and roses fair.
Free doves to fly and rain confetti and rice,
Where in the garden my bride and I abide
In the summery view of the charming moon,
In the youthful month of June.
Moonstone ring and pearl string adorn her finger and neck
Whereupon my chest, her head gently rests
With the softest touch, that says I love you so much.
And I savour her beauty in words of poetry,
Quoting Byron, Browning, Shelley, and Keats.
Aye, she melts my heart with her French accent
“L’amour est une chose merveilleuse entre moi et vous
(Love is a wonderful thing between me and you).
Toujours vrai (forever true)”
In the youthful month of June.
***
Note:
“June” is the first month of summer, and has the longest day of the year (summer solstice), around June 21st. The name June comes from the Latin word “Juvenis”, which means young people; and is a popular month to marry. June’s birthstones include moonstone and pearl. Roses and honeysuckles are June’s flowers, which symbolize love, devotion, and generosity, while the dove is the representative bird for the month.