Long Sylvia Poems
Long Sylvia Poems. Below are the most popular long Sylvia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sylvia poems by poem length and keyword.
The Grandmasters of Poetica
Make the mass of us look small;
While I can’t speak for thee and they
I gladly take the fall.
From goodness grace,
That unfathomable place
Where Emerson begins and ends;
Who among us from cradle to dust
Comes even close to catching
Him?
With all his disguises
And Whitman’s surprises
Each time I pick up and read:
Song of My Measure
Gives me so much pleasure
I’m humbled
Right down to my knees.
What atmosphere of Shakespeare
Quintessential quill undefined;
Confounds and shatters everything that matters
In the Human, make that Divine.
Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath
Dear ladies of love – sorrow - pain,
Frost in the woods and everything good
From Thoreau to Stephen Crane.
Why even tarry,
To merge or marry
Anyofourthoughtwordeeds?
Because love is of pleasure
And this writing endeavor
Is as human as eyes to see.
Sylvia Plath
?
In this world danced her words, in a poet's breath,
Sylvia lived in realms of love and strife,
Her verses weaved from darkness to bright wreath,
A soul immersed in tumultuous life.
With pen in hand, she bared her inner storms,
A heart so fragile, yet fierce and wild,
Through verses, her emotions took all forms,
Her truth, a gift, for every heart beguiled.
But depression so deep can cloud the brightest of skies,
And pain unseen can haunt a tortured soul,
In tragic end, she bid her last goodbyes,
A spirit broken, seeking to be whole.
Her legacy, a tapestry of pain,
Sylvia Plath, once a great poet that shall forever remain.
My Godmother
My Godmother,
Francis Valleria Payge,
As benevolent a woman
you could ever meet,
Shared a bond with my dear
and precious mother,
One that would also bring great
meaning to me.
For my mother to allow her
to partake in my naming,
Spoke volumes of their
friendship and love,
She became my mother's
sister in Christ
With a bond as strong
as kindred blood,
They named me Sylvia Vonciel,
meaning both Forrest and Sky,
Child of Heaven, and
child of Earth,
Woman of sorrows sown
in earthly tears,
for the reaping of Heaven's mirth.
As a young girl she was proud,
of everything I'd make and do,
From my drawings and readings,
to poetry and art,
And as a woman, my endeavors
and dreams to pursue.
Instilling faith from the very start.
Like an angel in disguise, her
kindness and love,
Was a love and kindness felt rom
God's own heart.
Strong in the faith, still to this day yet,
Inspiring me to be the best that I can be, with the godly examples she always set.
OH AUGUST!
"The best of summer is gone, and the new fall not yet born--the odd, uneven time of year." Sylvia Plath
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
time drips slow,
like honey from a summer hive.
days stretch like shadows,
dancing with death of summer’s embrace.
amber fields rustle,
their golden stalks heavy with grain.
air, thick with heat and scent of decay,
blooms that once flourished, now wither away.
sun hangs low, a reluctant king
crowned in sun’s afterglow.
cicadas hum their throaty tune,
a chorus of nostalgia in the dilatory heat.
evening sky,
a canvas of bruised twilight hues.
odd, uneven stretch of days,
a paradox wrapped in sun's shimmering haze.
time of harvest, an unsteady grace,
where joy and melancholy intertwine.
Oh August! Bittersweetness lingers,
for I know summer’s end is near.
Sylvia Plath
I want to be like Sylvia Plath
A talented writer
Someone to be admired
As she read her work
Spending time in the darkness
Writing more and more
Still, her mind saw the beauty of the world
Each of her poems showed the woman
The person she was inside
Someone hidden by the torment of her last years
She knew when she wrote her last words
She knew the moment when it was right to give up
Four hundred of her children survived that moment
You can still find them if you look
A modern master who died way too soon
Sylvia Plath will be remembered for the way she lived
All of the four hundred plus poems she wrote
The way she died
Tea
“Can I get you a cup of tea, Sylvia?’
An old woman,
old in years, but not in spirit,
silently curses her body
as she lays there,
betrayed.
Why couldn’t it have held on
a little longer?
There were so many things still left undone.
Letters to write, friends to call, paintings to finish.
The popular theory,
that your life flashes before you
is incorrect,
or maybe,
maybe she’s not dying after all.
There’s no flashing going on;
her mind is stuck in a moment.
A moment so long ago,
she had to pause to count
the decades.
…… six, no seven,
A young man with a crooked smile,
wavy brown hair and a guitar,
tried to kiss her.
What would her life have been
if she hadn’t chosen that moment
to turn away?
Would love have grown from friendship?
Would she have danced through life,
dressed in multi-coloured, billowing skirts,
bare-faced, long hair bedecked with daisies,
surrounded by laughing, curly haired children?
Would they have lived happily
as hippies in a commune?
Would he have serenaded her each morning,
kissed her each night,
written songs about their ideal life?
Or would she have succumbed to the cancer
in her twenties,
unable to combat the illness with herbal teas?
Tea, hundreds of cups, no, tens of thousands of cups of tea swirl past;
tea at weddings, tea at funerals, tea at birthday parties,
tea with friends, tea alone, tea in waiting rooms.
China cups with matching saucers, steaming mugs with biscuits and paper cups
all filled with tea.
The tea cups dance and spin around a distant vortex.
A life-time written in tea leaves.
“No! Not now.” she shouts in her mind.
The words leave her lips as a sigh.
“Maybe later,” says the nurse, though Sylvia is already gone.
Emily urges me forward, to look at my most innocent self
She is all about romance, yearning for more of it.
I am not sure if she ever experienced it in real life,
however, her words are true and I understand her need.
We sit in silence, contemplating my next poem
I do not write flowery stuff, I telepath to her.
I hear a tiny bit of laughter.
Are you really Emily? I ask or is this Sylvia?
My poems have been really dark lately.
I sense they are both here.
Fighting over me.
Coleridge is trying to shout them both down.
He wants me to pay attention, so I can write like he does.
I scoff at this idiocy.
The pressure puts me into a prone mood.
I lie down, and let my eyes gently flutter shut,
relaxing in the midst of my muses' argument for my soul.
Knowing Trixie will be along shortly to kick them all out.
Inspired by Sylvia Plath's "Kiss me, and you will see how important I am."
Kiss me, and you will see how important I am
because flesh is a man’s way to try my worth.
Someday, I want you to care to understand me,
but for now, I urge the sensuality to hook him into me.
Yes, flesh is a man’s way to try my worth–
flesh is the first layer of it all.
So I pray my sensuality will hook him to me.
I know no other way to be wanted.
Flesh is the first layer of it all,
so kiss me because it’s the only bait I have.
I truly know no other way to make myself wanted
other than offering a taste of my physical cage.
Kiss me because it’s the only trap I have,
desperately trying to capture you, enrapture you.
By providing a taste of this physical cage
will you want a glimpse of my mind?
And I am determined to capture you, enrapture you,
just so you might care to understand me.
Maybe, someday, you’ll care for a glimpse of my mind, but
kiss me! I’m begging you to see how important I am.
If she had to cross the rubicon for lack of sorting colours
A Rubik’s cube remained an unsolved puzzle
If numbers granted her the wish to live another happy day
Sudoku would refuse transformation from a maze
If chess could move to manifest the pawn’s hopeless plight
She’d marry black and white together
If life dealt yet another set of hands tied to brave surrender
A poker face turned red hot poker in her eye
But when emotions garnished poetry and muses’ feathers
Ink fell into place from selfless fountain quills
Quite possibly she is unbalanced on a spread sheet of lost time
And yet her pen embraces harmony with words
Pythagoras still dangles angles and straight lines in broken sequence
But there is no bloody razor in Archimedes’ bath
She has no rubber duck but sails with Poe’s dark ravens
Unfolds her plaits for darkened Sylvia
When foam caresses treasure island in her tub at night
She sails the seven magic oceans
A dolphin croaks another oracle at Delphi’s flood gates
As she postpones hemlock for another day
When she reaches cataracts of blurry vision in despair
Zero sum games twist algorithms of illusion
She cannot square roots and circles will not divide her prime
However much adding up fracture pulls the plug
Regardless of whether steam or tears moisten her parchment
The misty fog finds metaphors to embrace healing
24th January 2020
I wish I could write
like those others before me,
Byron and Shelley and old Edgar Poe
Flowery phrases
Thy love unforgetting,
chasing a raven as ink tends to flow
Follow a sidewalk
in Silverstein footsteps,
sit neath a tree as the apples appear
Doth O’ my feelings
O’er Midsummer stanzas
Dream thee melodic as words of Shakespeare
Maybe some thoughts
in a past tense creation,
deeper in meaning like Sylvia Plath
Or Robert Frost
and the nature he touches,
meandering off through the trees down a path
Emily Dickinson,
aprons and daisies,
words overflowing the tea kettle rim
And let’s not forget
“The man”, Leonard Cohen,
what I would give if I could write like him
Neruda, Longfellow,
Kipling and cummings
so many thoughts in their own point of view
Taking our minds
to assorted locations
every piece speaks of something quite new
So many poets
who weave inspiration,
any or all I can just hope to be
But here I am
just writing my verses,
I guess I am stuck being little ol’ me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And here’s a few more,
some you might know
Who inspire all
when their ink it does flow
Charmaine, Paloma,
Heidi and Dee
Victor and Daniel
Catie, Laniey
Holly, Alexis,
Mystic and Rick
Maurice, The Seeker
Eve and Tim Smith
Arthur and Freddie
James, Jo and Jan
Nette, Laura Loo
Broken Wings, San
And so many others
I’ve met on this site
Who each day inspire
this poet to write
If I have forgotten anyone, I apologize. I am still quite new here.