Long Translate Poems
Long Translate Poems. Below are the most popular long Translate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Translate poems by poem length and keyword.
A Monk With No God
Delta wave slumber, healing and pure.
Nothing the subconscious cannot cure.
All-in-all essence—creation’s force.
Impossible to name life’s true source.
Permeating worlds beyond count,
With grace, those cosmic numbers surmount.
Divine illumination within,
Consciousness eternal, without end.
“I think,” and thus prove that I exist—
Such an argument can be dismissed.
Unmeasured thought: no length, breadth, or weight.
Nothing to quantify or translate.
Cosmos expanding faster than light;
Humankind struggles with their own plight.
If nothing is greater than one’s mind,
How shall eternity be defined?
A monk with no god Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
9/22/2025
Speech is a caricature of thought
Thoughts are
Refined, graceful, delicate
Speech is
Clumsy, rough, awkward
We translate
Thought to speech
But never see
How flawed the process
Can be
In my mind
I sound debonair
And without a care
But in my voice
I sound like nails on a chalkboard
And I realized
Something is lost
In translation
But writing
Is the perfect medium
Where thought
And speech
Become intertwined
Giving life
To blank paper
Giving life
To beautiful thought
And maybe
Speech isn't just a caricature of thought
But a manifestation
Of the soul
Finding refinement
When written
I thought it would be fun to pretend to translate
a yakuza-enka (gambler folk song) by Shintaro Katsu,
to be sung with gravelly grave seriousness.
Nobody seems to love me
Or care about my pain
My sandals are all worn out
I sleep out in the rain
I am a lonely bugger,
A blind and lowly bug
I have no home, I always roam,
I'm practically a thug.
My name is Zatoichi
My life is never peachy
I tap along and sing a song
As sad as it is preachy.
The only time I'm happy
Is when I'm betting dice
But if they try to cheat me
or fail to treat me nice
I show them quick my blind man's stick
Can flash with bloody slice
I cut them all in pieces
It's quite an awful vice.
My name is Zatoichi
My life is never peachy
I tap along and sing a song
As sad as it is preachy.
I wonder why we are so selective?
Selective in what we hear…
Selective in what we see…
Selective in what we say…
Selective in what we read…
Why?
Why do we pick and choose and run the risk of misunderstanding others? Why don't we put our energies and efforts and affections into understanding the hidden messages instead of taking the easy way and interpreting that which is revealed?
Why?
Wouldn't it be healing if we could read between the lines and the ACTUAL lines?
If we could speak out what is hidden deep and not just on the tip of our tongues?
If we could see the inner motives: the light behind the eye, the love behind the smile, the fear of rejection behind the gesture?
If we could hear what isn’t being said?
How lovely if we could do all this instead of giving in to our selective nature?
Lost in translation…In an imperfect sin riddled world, we imperfect beings translate with our own jaded understanding what we see, hear, speak, and read…and we risk, yes, we RISK being subjected to others' selective choice in cutting us out of their lives.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Enter, this way,
don't mind the dank shadow-crawling tunnel,
nothing has lived here for years.
Antechamber ahead, no need to crouch now.
In this chill hall you can admire a black moon
pinned to an even darker sky.
So far, you have just been reading my thoughts,
now you may discern my mouth and one bloodshot eye,
fear not, I am just a patchwork poet,
other parts of me are buried here and there.
In the next room you can talk to your own ears.
There is a musical box in the corner
where the sullen arias of snails and puppy dog tails
are endlessly edited.
Enter now this shambling duplex apartment, here
there are two of me, both leading a double life.
All available light can be controlled by a
dimmer switch. You will know where to find it,
it is implanted between ecstasy and loathing.
Relax, I have provided a bed of bones for you.
Unfortunately, moles have ravaged my writing tablet,
I can only scratch poetry on mole hills now,
however, the upturned earth is still rich and loamy,
and the little creatures tirelessly check my spelling,
even though I can hardly see my words anymore.
Please note, that these musings have been sent
by those supersonic bats that translate for us
a whole world of silence.
Sunsets putting stars to shame
As I pray to the you in the Lord’s name.
I would have written you a letter or mailed you a card
But finding heavens address was a bit too hard.
There’s no golden mailbox for this special envelope
So that He will translate this message to you,
I can only forever hope.
It’s April 18th, your special day
But there’s just one thing in the way…
So tonight I’ll pray to you under the sun
About how you left just as your life had begun
I miss you so much more than I thought I ever would,
And as I go more days without you
I miss you more than I thought I ever could.
I just wanted one more birthday with you
But I guess this year a prayer will have to do.
I’ll wish you happy birthday through this special spoken note,
That I felt your presence as I tearfully wrote.
“Happy Birthday, Easton, don’t party too hard in heaven,”
although I know you’ll be forever eleven.
The Language of Blue
Sinking into the lyrical language of blue
Prime layers of still solitude speak
With muted voices
In sapphire soprano rhapsodies,
Lines of bass blushes, electric flecks of neon fire.
Hear in dusky blue’s modal shafts of light,
The peaceful plaintive sotto voce
Set an indigo scene
In delft lingua for a pas de duex
With trebling hues lapis and arbot.
Blue chants a lexis, a cerulean chroma glow
Sung in tender tenor tones patois
To translate soft sky blue aqua idioms,
As minor phrases meditate on azure,
In prose text that wafts in periwinkle blooms.
Unhurried blue on blue in plain-chant paeans,
Whispers and bedazzles teal twilight librettos
Of cradle songs in soft celeste waves
Of cobalt midnight in the consoling,
And the mystic, language of blue.
11-3-21
Contest: Blue
Sponsor Mystic Rose Rose
Trebling = triple
Arbot is a shade of blue
Chroma means glow
Charcoal Sheep
Watery eyed thoughts came,
Zap! Pow! a short circuited brain.
Inward turned burned ocular pain,
too many thoughts to restrain
I’m a cheap sheep making my mistakes again.
Smell my seared wool going down the drain.
Ba ba ba, sorta blackish, wishing I was right as rain.
Worlds accessed by my fingertips
help to quicken this sheepish heartbeat.
I bang on my keyboard, DELETE, DELETE!
Ripping out digital scores, sheet by sheet.
Never once listening to warnings.
All the while the other sheep bleat.
Instead I feel my brain drain
as my barnyard thoughts strain.
I can’t translate what they’re saying,
but I feel them point and complain.
My paradigm won’t shift though,
I have a glass ego to maintain.
So I download my brain
into my mainframe.
I’m watching you fake shepherd boy,
black sheep never sleep.
Into the darkness
we’re destined to creep.
We have those sad sadistic secrets
you’ve burdened us to keep.
So I smudge charcoal thoughts
dangerously deep.
I prefer paths, dangerous and steep.
Within the silence of the lambs,
you devilishly relish hearing me weep.
You defile fleece as white as snow.
I resist going where those sheep go.
Their path leads to your fictional rainbow.
They’re not safe even though
they travel slow.
The True Shepherd
wouldn’t lead them to and fro.
I listen to my uneasy queasy feeling
and exit your proverbial row.
I wish I could stop them too
but, ba ba ba,
off to the slaughter they go.
I’m 15,
young,
but they keep telling me the future’s already here—
whirring, buzzing, clicking.
Machines thinking faster than us,
AI, robots, tech everywhere,
and I—
I hate it.
What if they take it all?
The jobs, the dreams,
the work we’ve built with our hands,
the words we’ve shaped with our tongues?
I want to translate,
to speak in the rhythm of language,
to feel the pulse of words between breaths,
but what if—
a machine steals that too?
What if AI speaks in all tongues
but never feels the weight of them?
What if it’s too fast, too perfect—
but soulless?
And they say,
"Good enough. Better even."
And I’m left,
watching as my dreams slip through metal fingers.
They talk like the future is bright,
a shiny, silver thing,
but I see it and it feels cold.
How can something so advanced
feel so—
empty?
They say, “Don’t worry, we’ll adapt.”
But what if there’s nothing left to adapt to?
Human is human.
Robot is robot.
They will never be the same,
never understand what it means
to mess up,
to try again,
to laugh at mistakes
and cry over meaning.
I’m scared.
Scared that in a world of perfect machines,
there won’t be space
for imperfect humans like me.
For dreams made of soft things,
not code.
For work that breathes
and changes
and feels.
And I wonder—
what if the future has no room for me?
What if they take it all
and we’re left standing,
hands empty,
hearts full of what we could have been?-
attempting
to tempt
temptation
i may face
damnation
if thoughts
translate to
actions
quiet on
the set
action
the thunder
clap director
yells as lightning
lighting catches me
sitting on a set
of a movie
that i know
no lines to
but i'm
supposed to be
the lead as i
squint my
eyes
to
see the sunrise
perhaps that's
my cue but
not knowing
what to do
i begin by
adlibing a
nonesense
syllabical
soliloquy
not quite what
you might call
babbling but
blubbering
for i've be
come a child
again pass
ed birth
but not
even
fetal as i
fatally see
myself before
speech so need
to express facially
but i need an
audience of
adults say
ing things
as if they
were a child so
that they have
come down
a step to
be on
my level but it's
plain to see we
are actually on
a different
flight as
i'm going to
neverland and
they are going
to never mind
as the set
grows and goes
dark no more
arclights for
me to dis
embark
on my journey
even though
i'm just act
ing exactly
as to how
a child performer
would progress
in a world of
stardom
among
others and some not
yet discovered but
i see my destiny
in the make up
mirror
as i apply facial
growth growing
older with each
performance
now fourth
time before my
mirrored image
that i can't
imagine
is me
but he moves
exactly the
same as
when i
move
running
my fingers
through my
sprayed on grey
beard realizing like
citizen kane
i'm one in the
same yet putting
on weight not just
to make my feeble fat
fingers drop a snow
globe and mutter
my lover's pet
name for her
cl*tor*s
rosebud
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