Long Tennyson Poems
Long Tennyson Poems. Below are the most popular long Tennyson by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tennyson poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh, you do not want to know my tale,
But since you insist, I guess I'll just tell,
Originally from mystical India -- not Rome!
Some 30 years ago made the USA my home,
I revere Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, Krishna
But keep my faith in love, peace and karma,
I read Shakespeare, Longfellow, Poe, Keats,
Omar Khayyam, Frost, Tennyson and Yeats,
Besides poetry and movies, I love to love
Books, traveling and fair ladies in drove,
Sometimes I blow hot, sometimes cold
And venture out to buy stuffs already sold,
I am like Don Quixote, at times like Rip Van Winkle
Sometimes Ebenezer Scrooge, at times Kris Kringle.
Balding, with a paunch, but I think young
There's not a passionate song I haven't sung,
Pensive, moody and mostly quiet
But when I talk, I usually am right,
Couldn't walk good with my bad knees
But I dance with butterflies and bees,
Purblind, yet I have seen places umpteen
I daydream a lot, you know what I mean?
Born in June, by nature I am sunny
And if I so wish, I can be quite funny,
But you wouldn't want to mess with me
I can be swift and lethal like Bruce Lee!
I am writing this jestfully but it's serious,
Ha now, don't go get nosy or too curious!
"Bio of Poet" contest by Tammy Reams
Bedtime
The beginning of the night was hot
I went to bed naked (daredevil.)
On the other side of the bedroom, I saw a naked man had
a big stomach, large balls and a small .
Since he wasn’t me, I did not bid him good night
I switched off the light.
During the night, it got cold, a foretaste of winter
hastily put my pajamas on.
I had noticed the man in the other room had a long foreskin
at least he was not Jewish.
I made a mental note to ask her who he was
we sleep in separate bedrooms because of my snoring.
I was thinking of Carl Jung. was he a Christian or not
some of what he said was right in our Western society is steeped
in Christianity, as is our everyday speech.
Woke up at eight, walked into the kitchen
, and made coffee
thought, if the man who was not there was still sleeping.
(Tennyson.)
How does one compete with a Frost or a Keats,
a Dickinson or Whitman for words,
how can we say in our language today
what we feel within has been stirred.
Like those in our past who intrinsically grasped
the secrets to living and more,
their visions, dreams, and ideas it seems
came through their own secret doors.
I make no pretense I could ever dispense
the levels of beauty they wrought,
Wordsworth, Thoreau, Tennyson, and Poe
A sampling of pure genius thought.
The list could on from Homer to Donne,
Psalms to Shakespeare and Blake,
but this I know well, they cast quite at a spell
on this amateur poet of late.
I beg their forgiveness to think that I may
hold a candle to a stanza or line,
that any one of them penned, each one a Godsend,
still echoing throughout time.
Dare I call them “exalted ones”
though fading voices by and by,
I wonder if in one hundred years
will they still bring smiles and sighs?
Will the books remain with all their names,
and thoughts and deeds be told,
will some still grasp the readers task
is to open wide one’s soul?
I rest my case here in this place
for answers befuddle me,
but I for one am glad they came
and left their lasting, loving legacies.
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
Just 'fore words formed inside my head
as my mother put me to bed
her sweet voice would rhyme to lull me
tales of children wild and misled.
Who ran and played and sang and danced
deep in teepees as in a trance.
Or climbing atop the walls of castles
dueled with broom stick used as lance.
The children’s hour was our time
to kiss and snuggle laugh and sigh.
And she taught me of Paul Revere
of his rushed ride with red coats nigh.
So many Longfellow tales told
of bold, real or imagined feats
that never did I want her voice
to stop or pause or to repeat.
Tennyson could tell a tale of
charging brigands in full retreat.
But, none could met the glory of
Longfellow’s stories so replete!
*Longfellow wrote Hiawatha, The Chidren's Hour, and Paul Revere's Ride
among dozens of other poem stories. In the 1920's children were taught
history through the use of poetry.
"Help me ... to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield"
Quote by - Tennyson
My tears could fill the ocean blue,
because my heart is forever shattered;
your deaths have my soul bleeding,
and my spirit is broken, broken;
Lord, give me strength for today !
Mom, when you died I just withdrew,
I was empty of emotion and done;
and I would not listen to people,
all help and questions I ignored;
Lord, give me courage for today !
When I said farewell and adieu,
to Daddy- gone was my anchor and rock;
it was so sudden that I was lost;
oh, I will always recall the exact time;
Lord, help me to surrender my pain !
Grandma left me with the morn' dew,
she had taken this child in her arms to mend;
and had been my inspiration to write,
the reason poetic words are now my life;
Lord, help me accept all this grief, sorrow!
I visit and pass a statue,
of a weeping angel at his cold grave;
my love, I know you want me to go on,
but to grieving your death I did and do;
Lord, hold me in your arms when I am afraid !
Again, I was in a church pew,
weeping the loss of my sweet baby boy;
we buried him with a little blue teddy bear,
his death took away what was left of me;
Lord, carry me in your arms when I am weeping !
But, somehow this sad girl got through,
it took courage and strength and lots of tears;
it did not happen fast but took me years,
and I now whisper each day healing prayers;
Lord, I give you all my sorrow so I can let it go !
From- The Book of the Prophet Isaiah,
Verse 43:2 When thou passest through the waters,
I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not
overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou
shall not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.
_____________________
January 06, 2022
Poetry/Dramatic Monologue/ TEARS I GIVE TO THE LORD
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1419-470-06
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Inspiration is my 07/12/21 rhyme poem, My Heart Is Shattered
rewritten in Dramatic Monologue for this contest (words and lines
added and some rhyming words deleted to change it from rhyme)
Written for the Standard contest My Significant 2021
sponsor, Beata Augustin, Judged 01/25/2022
First Place
Ring Out, Wild Bells, to the Wild Sky
(Ode to Alfred Lord Tennyson)
Fair son of England whom I write
of saw not well; thus short of sight,
formed lines that in his head would lie.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild Sky.
Those lines (deep thoughts) - once written down -
rang out like church bells through a town
or birds, which to the heavens fly.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky.
Yes, lofty verse and lyric sound
could touch those rooted to the ground
and make a nation’s royalty sigh!
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky.
Victorian inside his soul,
he also played a modern role -
He saw man’s plight and questioned why.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky.
Poet Laureate too was he
who penned a famous elegy
for his young friend so young to die:
“Ring Out, Wild Bells” (to the wild sky)
By old age, he had crushed his fears,
outlasting many poet peers.
To honor him, I can but try. . .
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky.
For Dr. Ram Mehta's Contest on
"Ring out wild bells to the wild sky"
Quote: "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." - Alfred Lord Tennyson
In love's great quest, amidst the trials we face,
We navigate a labyrinth of pain,
Where hurdles rise, and shadows interlace,
Yet still, love's flame within our hearts remains.
Like thorns on a rose, obstacles appear,
Social norms, familial bonds entwine,
Economic woes, our path so unclear,
And lovers torn by vows they must resign.
But in the depths of darkness, love's light gleams,
A beacon guiding lost souls through the night,
With selfless grace, it mends the shattered dreams,
And sets our spirits soaring to new heights.
For love, the word that frees us from life's strain,
Remains our solace, eternal refrain.
MY PLEA - a Tennyson Phrasis
By this still hearth I will drink
life to the lees.Much I have
known and seen..myself not least.
I am part of all that I have met,
yet how dull it is to pause to make
an end without this plea to thee.
From the eternal silence,something more..
a bringer of new things beyond the
utmost bound of human thought.
Come my friends,strive and find,'tis not
too late o seek a newer world.
A Christian Evangelical Phrasis inspired by some words in Ulyses by Tennyson
A Phrasis is a structured prose verse collaboration where the poet uses selected phrases of another writer’s (out of copyright) words to compile unique poetry therefrom as a tribute thereto,(the word phrasis is Greek for phrase). x
You may hear me recite this phrasis and much of my PS poetry on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro
"I shall be telling this with a sigh"
Robert Frost
My thoughts they roil like waters dark
in the abyss of blackest night
with memories of mother’s book marks
of Longfellow read by lamp light.
She called in the room around me
the patter of other small feet,
her gentle voice fetched angels
Oh, rhymes how they astounded me
like lullabies soft and so sweet.
All fearsome shadows, she’d dispel
Maxine, my queen read Tennyson
and the Charge of the Light Brigade
a little girl dreamt of caissons
roll and thunderous cannonades.
To be so brave the small child mused
mother’s small, precious, heroine
what would it take to stand so strong
without father, and not confused
What words where the linchpin
to right mother’s tell tale wrong.
Such sad inspiration*.. mother
but a champion you were born.
You’re adored before all others
yet, tears bring memories forlorn.
So, dreams stream on of Mother Goose
three kittens and their mittens.
My visions of your fleeting smile
return almost every night,
and your spirit comforts, lightens
sights, if only for a little while.