Long Turgid Poems
Long Turgid Poems. Below are the most popular long Turgid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Turgid poems by poem length and keyword.
Hackneyed inane
and ignominious
waterlogged waffle
suffused sandstones
of indistinct
idiosyncratic cant
conveyor belts
congested with
puerile pigments
dousing silken
subtle phrasings
sacrificed on
atavistic academic
altar encrusted
monochrome mists
designed to dupe
gullible and clueless
bamboozled beings
prone to equate
elaborate entanglement
imposed on
turgid thorns
of rippling
rudiments
with sagesse
thesis couched
in arrant
archaic abstruse
formulations
bereft of
iridescent inkling
discordant timpani
cymbal brushes
epitomising
gruff grammar
that lesion
traumatic wound
mud clump
cliché stuck
in banal
coinage rife
diamond dreamer
me yearns for
spuming fountains
of pristine
lustrous language
(Hardly anything is known about Sappho, but no-one seriously
doubts her greatness as a poet. She lived on the Greek island
of Lesbos (hence “Lesbian”) in the seventh century BC. All that
has survived of her work is a scattering of scraps, but even this
meagre evidence establishes her as one of the foremost poets
of all time.)
V.
The sunlight is old now,
and losing its fine force.
Beneath the turgid moon, then,
let young women take their places.
As the silent globe swells up,
her sisters, the silver stars,
show their little faces.
Slow, slow, naked feet
together pound the earth.
Our circle is a living altar,
and grass fronds kiss our calves.
Just for one night the moon is full,
glorious in her loveliness,
dancing her own white path
on the sparkling dark sea.
Dance together
under the moon,
Aphrodite's daughters!
Dance with us,
goddess of love,
with the subtly shining hair.
You are mine, fair Atthis,
and will never be this fair again.
When drum and tambourine
have captured us and wiped us clean
of self, we will make love.
In each other's arms,
breathing, sleeping,
with silent moon gliding ...
why, then, am I weeping?
In the waters of the Flood,
Flowerbeds softly turned to mud,
Rose riv’let fingers from the sea,
At first caressing seemed to be,
And flickering breezes, gentle still,
Coursed cool on sunlit stony hill.
Mara, wife of Simeon,
Seeing that the beach was gone,
In mixture of delight and fear,
To see the sea called children near,
Young Imma, Hanan, Joshua,
Gazed down amazed at what they saw.
In the waters of the Flood,
Unpaved pathways frothed to mud,
And rising winds blew waves at walls,
That frightened beasts within their stalls;
And frightened were the children too:
But Simeon’s heart no quivering knew.
“Father, can you save us from the storm?”
“Faith in God will keep us warm.
There’s a Father far above,
Who protects us with His love.”
In the waters of the Flood,
Rose the turgid waves of mud,
And as the failing sun sunk down,
The conquering night fell on the town,
In flashing light swept homes away,
The valley swallowed by the bay.
“Father, is it meant for us to die,
Grown and children, broken by the sky?”
“Though the world has gone insane
In the violent lashing rain,
Hold my hand, we shall remain.
Hold your faith and have no fear,
Though the waters grow so near.”
And he said, though less he knew,
“Hold my hand, no fear in you,
There’ll be mercy ere it’s through.”
The children took a comfort quite,
Their father’s strength in crashing night,
And the mother of them all
Clung most tightly to the small,
As she wept a missing doll.
In the waters of the Flood,
In malignant, violent mud,
Soon drowned in agony and terror,
In currents pulsing everywhere,
Friends floated by stout Simeon’s feet,
Their glassy stare in driving sleet.
“Evil have we to match this?
Let the Lord then have His bliss:
Sure, our lives He will not miss.
Die in courage, then, my son,
Hold me tightly, till it’s done.”
When the waters did recede,
‘Midst the piled aquatic weed,
By the thousand miles there spanned,
Stenching corpses cross the land,
Loved and killed by God’s soft hand.
In the waters of the Flood,
Died the living and their blood.
And the Lord, in viewing this,
Thought a rainbow not amiss.
Crackle into morning.
Hasten your fear astray.
Outside blue doves are catching fire.
Bacon, make bacon, and live the normal light.
The strain and bob of countless decisions,
Turgid and taut along the fence
Of the girlfriend's backyard.
Fear the father call while,
Dear old mother is sprawled
Covering and smothering
The floor of your conscience:
The monster bearing the unwanted gifts:
It has no name.
Relieve crying, shame, and torment of their duty.
Catch the lighted spirit
From the quiver of telephone poles,
The flutter of crows,
The boundaries of the bows
Bound to the presents that have no receiver.
Be the believer. Be our Redeemer.
Be the sound in the deepest night,
The glow of the darkest cave,
The fly of butter that flew off the frozen animal
of our sorry, sodden, and surrendered inner landscape.
Be our Redeemer,
melt grace from our cheers.
Pour it over the dead water
We bathe, drink, and splash in.
Give our wall a name.
Push it over, and walk across.
We will follow, crackling,
Into Morning.
03/05/11
another Bukowski nightmare begins
the castrato sings below
while she calls from the minaret
fossicking thru the memories
for our linked verse
while i, sitting beneath the coolabah
river on the run
waiting for some rabbit or Alice
oh incorrigible moon
have you no mercy this night
see the parade pass, the ithyphallic
the trilithon collapsing, time and gravity
another turgid, erubescent symbol deflated
another thought buried by time
and mine to waste
o moon so incorrigible
teach me not emotion
let me revel in callosity
let the mirror play tu quoque
let it speak for once
scream from the inner scotopia
where the predatism scutters
read to me another confessional poet
those in need
of yet another minie ball, open oven door
fill the pockets with rocks and rockets
o god more, more misery
rise and hail your innermost misery
you must suffer for literature
tempus fugit is a lead pipe cinch
that is the diphthong the calliope
never fails to sail thru
while surds and sonants bounce the walls
the coffee shop lustrum, ideomotion
learn to unlearn
supine beneath the coolabah
river on the run
waiting for a rabbit or Alice
the urge for frottage
pushes us beyond logic and reason
suffering polyphagia between the limbs
where the eyes drool in
bushes of void commandments
now postmodernism
and i are even
i refuse to die for this revolution
i refuse the pitiful pitfalls
life's a grand adventure
taking in ever larger measures
i refuse to fail its call
i refuse
i refuse
hand me that bottle of rum
let's think about this
Fergus Falls 97
I looked it up on Google,
Read the turgid prose,
Did the questionnaire
Was very quickly diagnosed.
So many things now
Suddenly fell into place
After a lifetime's experience
Of constantly losing face.
No longer the clumsy oaf,
No longer the thickie spastic,
No longer the bumbling fool,
I'm just mildly dyspraxic.
After more than fifty years
Since that last games day,
Always the last to be picked
For any team I played.
That evil Drill Pig who reduced
Me to tears on the square
Just because I made a mess
Of the squad practicing there.
My reflexes then being
Far far too slow:
I was still coming to a stop
As he was shouting go.
The panic on the mid shift
A huge report to type
And my teleprinter skills
Just turning out tripe.
People screaming at me
With a job to complete
And the looming deadline
I never managed to beat.
I've struggled all through life
Trouble with physical skill
Just getting through
By sheer force of will.
All these years of not
Being able to understand
That lack of coordination
Between my brain and hand.
So, I'm not just a useless bugger,
Clumsy and thick as a brick,
I've got a brain wiring problem
I'm just a mild Dyspraxic.
It doesn't solve the problem
But at least I now know why
I tend to make a mess of
Most physical things I try.
So, if I'm walking past you
And somehow catch your feet,
Or, if I stumble and abruptly
Crash into your seat
And grin as I apologise
Please don't think I don't care
It's just the defence I use
To cover up my despair.
There’s a strength in knowledge:
I no longer feel quite so alone,
The sting gone from most cracks
About being accident prone.
So here I am,
And I am me,
And just that bit of knowledge
Has finally set me free
Planted in the golden phase
A solitary corm in cooling ground
Dormant during barren times
When wintry depths are transient
New light awakes the sleeping soil
The fresh green blade greets warmer climes
While earth arises yet again
To conspire with sun and rain
Pierced fragile breeze by turgid spear
As nearer to a celestial glory
Its beauty begins to unfold
Faint yellow begs for sweet release
With final burst of bloom and flourish
This golden trumpet exudes a fanfare
And heralds a stately entrance
That makes old Helios proud
Marked yellow dots sheaths of green
relief for new beginnings
With sad winter fading fast
The humble corm transformed
You used to scare me with your torrid schemes.
My mind was a parcel for your unravelling.
There was a time you'd play with its shadows,
and then you said you never took sides...
I believed you then.
Now, I know I was wrong.
You're not to be believed, but sung!
And when my eyes are wet, drowning in this turgid ache,
then I know that I've swelled with you this day.
A mass is a Higgs/Boson,
deifying this mysterious principle of attraction.
Keeping the stars on an ever course,
While I'm assuaged with infinite space,
you move in waves of eternal grace,
and now I have been created.
This day has mattered to one so swayed,
by your hammer of fate!
I hung from remorse too often for words,
yet you beckoned with tears and laughter.
Hidden in unexpected anomalies,
and mysterious mannerisms,
like twinkling eyes at the moment of death.
There is no use with human innuendos
which are crimes that make up minds.
No thought is made without particles,
you have ever before destroyed,
and no tear is without your
infinite recycled amorous affair.
My heart is an elixir of prayers,
with which I consort and hum,
Oh My
OM I
The voices of my present state and feelings echo
down into my mother’s sympathetic ears,
They resonate…in no barriers, she decodes
with her warm understanding and great love overflow.
She hears my footsteps on trails of joy and contentment,
giving me her smiles with supporting hands to go ahead;
She hears my footsteps on path of desolation or in tacit sadness,
Offering her breast and shoulder to lean on,
her loving pieces of advice uplift my spirit, wipe my tears and give me breath.
My fragile emotion easily restores and mends,
Oh, mother dear, your listening ears are your heart’s aesthete!
A rich tapestry of comfort, love and affection,
where all my sighs , fears and sentiments will be laid.
No child’s turgid words in my mother’s loving ears,
regardless of distance, she listens, embraces and cares,
With her sensitive radar system, she knows all my needs
like Tannoys - so loud, supersonic, she hears them all vibrate.
Her ears synch well with her loving heart
Amazingly entwine, they are twosome…
Oh, mother dear, may I touch lovingly your ears with my both hands,
may I touch your angelic aging face as I thank you so much,
This poem is especially for you, I’m sending it with a SWALK
Sealed With my Loving Kiss on this sweet Mother’s Day card.
*Tannoy s- systems of loudspeakers for making announcements
Written: May 9, 2015 10.40pm
-This poem is a loving dedication to my ever dearest mom who is here with me right now. She loves poetry so much. She was my first teacher in reciting poetry. I was inspired to write a free verse poem for her. This is my Mother’s Day gift for her along with my humble art works/ paints, Mother’s Day t-shirt and card.
May I also dedicate this poem to all mothers all over the world. More power and blessings to you all! HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY! MANY HUGS FROM ME!
First Place
Contest: Mother's Ears
Judged: 5/18/2015
Poet Sponsor: Craig Cornish
A Mother's Love, Tributes of Love for Mother's Day
Contest Judged: 5/3/2022 7:00:00 PM
Sponsored by: BJ Legros Kelley
Place 1
I am slid into the core of the big white tube.
It will reveal all my moving parts
all the flagging and wheezing organics
that reside in the same apartment block,
share the same airducts and plumbing,
but otherwise hang in semidetached hutches
strung around my walled city.
My neck hurts, the cat scan takes time.
I get to thinking about cats,
how they curl up to rest
in the most unusual places. Cat’s would probably
sleep well in this softly clicking tunnel.
My head needs a pillow, arms akimbo aching.
After ten minutes of thinking in this sterile cylinder
I am an annotated movie of my life,
a surface feature for the paranoia of clinging plants.
I trawl stagnant pools for whale calls
or anything that can sing in my turgid being,
but only a headless language
floats up.
I can only listen to organs stirring; some drool,
some open small gummy gobs and gills.
Dim rheumy senses squint. Pulpy cisterns gurgle,
glands groan under a weight
only a shut-in darkness can weigh.
Transportation hubs and their arteries
continue their tireless gift-wrapped deliveries.
Muscular chemicals continue their Peloton workouts,
but the body as a whole is still wearing away
what it can’t afford to lose.
“All done,”
a disembodied voice declares.
I am conveyed outwards
on the worlds shortest rail track,
leaving parts of my mind behind to clean up stray fears -
remove the litter of mad ponderings.
Results will be days away,
until then black cats in lightless rooms
must find a way to be seen.