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.
Sylvia - She was born a cute little cherubic babe
She reminds me of ringing bells her mother thought
I will name her Sylvia… which sounds like silver bells
She was born in August a true Leo
While the four of us were water bearers
She was so very different from us
It always appeared that we were ganging up against her
While she always stood to her ground like a true lion
Master player at board games that is what she was
Always winning against me.
Yet her nature always soft, gentle, forgiving and generous
She is now married with a brood of seven children
I wonder how she manages it all
Mother says, that oaf has made her a holy cow.
Hyacinth- Caustic Soda that’s what I could say
Always ready for a battle of words
Sometimes I wonder why we marry at all
It changes us, batters us, I wish we could be the same.
But I think in the end it was for the better.
No matter what she has got a natural flavour.
Sharon- Endearing all with your magnetic personality
Tall, well groomed and detached
Like something that someone wants but can never get
Yes you are eternally young and beautiful
No wonder they all chase you like moths.
Oh how I love them all…Sisters….
In the canvas of twilightish insanity
Appear pomegranate designs of passion
An intellectual dance of day flowing into night
In the sea inside skull, the heartbeats of humanity
Vibrating with rurality towards urbanity
Get oxidized in the lemon and salt of mundanity
No concern for the formality of meter and iamb
And thus blooms out the filigree of feelings
Beautiful Sylvia Plath effect revealing
They invite us to the mirror
Of our reality of current disintegration
Reeking of brutality and volcanity
Collapsing rhythm joyously spells fatality
And cheerfully grows an inanity of mentality
Eating into our diamonds of morality
You often say you will return and love
Are you afraid of the expanding emptiness
And the vitality-sapping black holes?
We do not know why profanity is considered a value
We do not know where our brutal rooms lead to
We only see green leaves dropping dead every day
__________________________________________________
25/01/2017
Word Challenge - Poetry Contest hosted by Silent One
Stepping through time
The song it was sad, such a desolate melody
We danced to a weeping of horrific dreams
Symphonies lost as the days go uncounted
Steps keep the tempo, delusional scenes
A pirouette frown lingers sorrowed poetically
Her hand is cold, almost lifeless in mine
And in those eyes, distant teardrops are echoing
Staring the ending not far down the line
Depression illumines the dark shadows crawling
Moon light deceives like an absentee star
Violins pluck out a lonely notation
High pitched and weary like bells in a jar
Stepping through time to the lonely days harboring
Soon it will be but a waltzed aftermath
Holding her close midst the demons now battling
This, the last dance, me and Sylvia Plath
2/7/17
Written for the: Stepping Through Time Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
On a summer night in Greenwich Village,
when neon trembled against wet pavement
and fear wore the uniform of the law,
a spark leapt from the shadows.
It was June 28, 1969.
The night the people who had been told
to lower their voices,
hide their hands,
change their walk,
bury their hearts,
finally said:
No.
At the doors of Stonewall Inn,
the pursuit of happiness ceased being a promise on paper
and became a demand carried by living, breathing souls.
Drag queens.
Runaways.
Dreamers.
Workers.
Artists.
Lovers.
People whose names history almost erased,
yet whose courage became a torch.
The world would later learn the names of heroes like
Marsha P. Johnson
and Sylvia Rivera,
but that night belonged to thousands,
each carrying a universe inside them,
each deserving the simple freedom
to exist.
To love.
To dance.
To breathe.
The journey was never straight.
It wound through funerals and protests,
through silence and song,
through years when hate marched openly
and hope marched anyway.
Yet every generation carried the banner forward,
stitching new colors into an unfinished quilt
of human dignity.
And as fate would have it,
the uprising began on the birthday of
Judy Garland,
whose voice had long offered refuge
to those searching for a place
somewhere over the rainbow.
Perhaps that is coincidence.
Perhaps it is poetry.
Today the rainbow flies in cities and small towns,
in courtrooms and classrooms,
in places where it once would have been dangerous
to whisper its name.
Not because the struggle is finished,
but because courage is contagious.
The pursuit of happiness
was never about chasing wealth,
or fame,
or applause.
It was always about the right
to wake each morning
unafraid of being yourself.
To hold a hand.
To speak your truth.
To live openly beneath the same sky
that belongs to everyone.
And so the voices continue.
Different accents.
Different stories.
Different songs.
Yet together they form a chorus
so powerful
that even history must stop and listen.
A chorus born in resistance,
carried by love,
and still marching
toward freedom.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
I think I made you up inside my head.
-Sylvia Plath
I see no reason to rhyme,
but an aching heart,
stranded in the midst of nothingness,
as quill rests in a nameless
coffin, like a trembling corpse.
Words woven in tears
glisten like rain,
amidst rustic pages
within a book of bleeding ink.
While
I, the deep darkness,
ponder, would the moon
ever grieve for the sun,
or will she allow waning
stars to abandon
her doleful realm?
As her face
shifts and turns through
phases of changes-
and her soul like
the weary winter,
withers into white-washed wounds.
I am the hazy mirror to
a lunar goddess.
There shadows betrayed
this cruel conscience,
roaming within forlorn vales,
swirling through a woeful wind,
to nocturnal sonatas.
My mind nestles like
a raven resting
at the treetop,
calling your name into
frozen oblivion,
laced in secluded silence,
echoing amidst obsidian fears.
What would they know
of tainted tales,
obscured within the
mellifluous sound of splitting rain?
I am throned to a fallen sky,
drizzling thorns and splinters
upon bruised toes.
Remember, I love you,
through dreams and more,
stretching my fingers
to your silvery spheres.
Now your palette of romance
paints a blurred portrait
of hallowed misery;
dreams forgotten with time.
There’s no perfect
pigment to correct
my insomniac frame
but metaphors to lure me
back to a colorless
castle above satanic seas.
I’m dancing with demons;
as the pain you’ve fed me,
rushes through chained chambers.
Tonight, the storms may seem calm,
like forests awaiting for a trail
of redolent rainbows,
to flicker upon mourning meadows.
Tomorrow, when I slumber
six feet beneath breathing fiction,
will you rewrite cruel convictions,
that stole my purpose to live?
Maybe darkness sparkles upon
rich rivulets of rippling regrets,
so the cosmos would allow the moon
to rise and beam brighter than
the selfish sun.
Let this poem be the last
amulet to sorrowful sagas,
as I untangle your vines
suffocating my final breath,
this is the eternal demise—
I’m dying before your dead eyes.
Your gassed up consciousness
strums a stream of ideas throughout societies' minds.
They are baffled. Sick.
with the disasters you so-called created.
Why must they clench onto that beautiful mess,
the kind where, paper files up, spreads out across that ceramic brown-
and you don't know if you lost that important number,
that cry out for help when you're husband is leaving you-
he's deceiving you, in the uttermost strange deception-
that you aren't sure whether to believe it or not.
Cause he is one dang good liar.
The kind you find in the jail cell, all is lost,
all is gone,
and they hold nothing, wear nothing but a mindless scrap of fabric to cover the must-
censored area.
He fooled you. And your children.
He made you believe all these things you maybe were not.
But in fact,
in the mind of a writer,
you're as normal as they get,
gifted as they come,
and you'll never, let anyone know why you think those silly thoughts,
like what time of day you'll die, no,
How you will, and what it will feel like.
You don't really care what comes out of it, but you do know that you've lived up to
your death in a manner quite maturely,
no matter what the outsiders say,
because
they cannot understand a writer.
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
Ginsberg
Kerouac
Beat Tap
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde
W. H . Auden
Shakespeare
Wordsworth
Sylvia Plath
Virginia Woolf
Jane Austen
The Bronte Sister's
Authorities of Classic Art
Using ink instead of oils or water to paint a pallet dry
Mixing words into elix
To create book's without pictures
So as the blind can rejoice as well
In words that bind us all together
Life , Loss , Longing , Loving
Belonging , Betrayal
Power , Struggle , Death
Family , Foe's
Verses and Prose
The words that which we daily quote
When called upon to speak
Directly from the heart
While all the while never knowing
They are reciting words from a poem
Or classical works of Art
Of an Author they could not even name
Nor actually in reality know
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.
TOGETHER – NEVER APART
Sylvia and Stefan, sing in tune, together – never apart.
Cradled upon the crescent moon, together – never apart.
Witnesses of Sylvia’s lullaby – the angels and twinkling stars.
Stefan holds her tight, croons all night, together – never apart.
She completes his soul, with mirthful depth and beauty.
His lilting voice causes her to swoon, together – never apart.
They view the tilting earth with swirls of grass, soil, and sea.
They discourse all night, with spoon hands, together – never apart.
Even through twilight years, their souls pressed tight in firmness.
Her hair shines silver, his gone too soon, together – never apart.
One ornamental eve, Sylvia’s eyes too heavy, she slips from her chair.
Stefan’s woeful rune, fingers embrace, together – never apart.
2/7/2017