Long Virginia woolf Poems

Long Virginia woolf Poems. Below are the most popular long Virginia woolf by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Virginia woolf poems by poem length and keyword.


Premium Member The beautiful elegant me

Capturing my illuminating glow the essence of my infamous smile wild wonder of my laughter gathers a gentle breeze tangible meaningful gestures opens the balance of selfless energy as I move to the beat of a kindred drum highlighting mystical memorable moments gliding and warm oils over my Cocoa brown skin I'm awakened by the sunlight beaming in a distant chatter glorifying my untimely hue I'm needed to create a daily psalm in the wandering minds of the free spirits the free thinkers gather tasting my nubian elegant lyrical self crafting beauty through prose enhancing vintage thoughts boldly holding on to hidden treasure that captivated Virginia Woolf my wondrous gift continue opening hearts everywhere I chant be moved adoring my being with ease watching Maya Angelo grin with awesomeness wondering did I go to school reading the fine arts of Gwendolyn Brooks when my heart and mind invite my soul over for tea an elegant dance to simply bestow magnificent things began to happen trees sway kneel clapping their hands before me the sky opens night blends with dawn a mauve moon rising while the tides quiet down as I find myself feeling high on the people feeling high on myself filled with excitement whilst resting peacefully reading hymns thinking I just adore the wonder of me the wonder of self love a beautiful gift to behold indeed
Form: Lento


Premium Member Who Am I

“If you don’t tell the truth about yourself, you can’t tell it about other people”~ Virginia Woolf


              'Say who am I'
        is a great challenge hurled on me,
      necessitating great introspection
        and clarity of thoughts.
  I am learning to find who I really am.
  Though never perfect, am without serious flaws. 
    I wish to improve with each step,
  as I know, if I’m not growing, I am dying.

              I'm a poet,
        and a true aspiring artist.
      I try to be a beautiful person,
        kind and compassionate. 
  More than anything, I am a sweet child of God.
  A teacher from hilt to heel and proud to be so.
    An erudite soul with vision, 
  A sculptor who sees an angel within a rock!
Form: Verse

Premium Member Remember, You



“Remember, You”

This one is for you,
when you forget to remember
why, what and who

This one is for you,
when you understand
the why and what you do;

This one is for you,

when you search for words
buried deep within your hidden heart 
elevated Shadow in skies of lapis lazuli blue, when 
clouds of poetic mists distract your heady lofty view

This one is for You,
when you forget to remember
why, what and who.
Poet - 

Remember, You.


Candide Diderot. ‘25









"The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mold of the body and mind." 
Virginia Woolf



"A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds." 
Percy Bysshe Shelley



"At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." 
Plato



"A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman."
Wallace Stevens
(hmmmm, that could be good or bad).
Form: Narrative

50 Words For Poe: Wolf

"50 Words for Poe: Wolf"



He watches the Asylum.
Silently soft paw bides his time and grins

He doesn't dig Haiku
Impromptu is more his thing

Give a dog a bone

(LadyLabyrinth/2019)




https://youtu.be/iPXKzHBTSA4
Pit Stop/Loveage



“The wolf said, 
"You know, my dear, it isn't safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone."

She said,
 "I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop your own, entirely valid, worldview. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way.”



https://youtu.be/PO6R0UtLpnU
Set the Grass on Fire/Elysian Fields



The wolf said,
“Of course you aren't scared of me. I'm not the wolf. You are.” 

“There's no limit to you, is there?”
 Edward Albee, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 




Popcorn?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vL2TYoBYsnY 




of course, there's more than one wolf in the woods

Premium Member Disabled Poets Society

Being driven by others 
who just don't see your illness
since it's not a broken arm or leg
keep saying I'm special I can win
the being disqualified because 

you never attended college.
nor because you suffered injury 
or illness being told you just.
cannot compete struggling. 
because someone said you 
 
and your mind cannot write. 
its own thoughts searching. 
finding real hope within 
The Special Olympics 
where you are among 

your own peers why one 
must believe writing poetry 
is no different that being able
to express yourself through 
poetry and song is a gift no one 

has the right to take it away 
from you the feeling being free  
in your mind to be challenged to soar 
in spite being quote unquote broken
silencing yourself words unspoken

Maya Angelou wrote of great suffrage 
depression and abuse as did Virginia Woolf  
during her madness mental disease her best 
poetry was created including Emily Dickinson 
Edgar Alan Poe William Shakespeare 

many great writers mentally disabled persons 
think write read and sing teaching us about 
mental illness why they have a lot to say 
well in my book I think that it's okay

Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen


Herstory, Not History

(for Virginia Woolf)

She wanted to buy some flowers but drowned Herself instead,
drifting along the ebbing flow of time, with warm
water cracking Her slim figure and airless lungs.

‘will I freeze the river?’ She thought, wondering if the trees
would still rustle in the wind if She wasn’t alive to notice it,
thinking if Her man’s heart would still beat if She could
no longer shock its rhythmical thump-thud-stop with kisses.

the wood was chopped down around Her home. The
veranda from which She surveyed the world was but
deafened by cruel hacking chopping and sawing at the 
hands of men whom took Her feminine beauty away.

She became the water as She died, became the weeds,
became the bark that broke her own back, the pen and the phallus.
‘this isn’t purgatory’ She realised, ‘this is revenge and reward’.
‘I am a sacrifice to literature. I am a sacrifice for the word’.

from writer to death to glory to ink
to the lies under rocks uncovered, 
to god to me to the taking of Her own life,
She is the paper in our very hands.

Premium Member A Clean Heart - 1


Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things - a table, a chair, a book... and the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit silent. - Virginia Woolf


Breathing in the silent thoughts
Of rich, green pasture
Maples and birch
Birthed on the tail end
Of a rain shower
In spring

Whispering in the dreams
Of colors in hues
Of lavender and lilac
Promises rich
Dancing light and love
Laughter from above
On the heart of one who knows
God is alive

Soothing the heart and soul
With beauty discovered
On winds and vibrant hugs
From the stardust night
As it flickers and smiles
Bidding souls delight
In psalms and prayers
Insights

Twisting and turning
Through rays of sunlight
As it embraces naked minds
With delicious inspirations
Feelings so sweet
Compassion swells within
Warming the heart
As well as the spirit
Comforting as
Music

Little things come to life
In the eyes of a child
Who loves so innocently
Purity dripping from the heavens
On milky clouds
So soft and kind they 
Deny the thunder
Has ever roared in a storm
As they caress the skies
With simple hope

Create in me a clean heart
O God… create in me a right spirit
One who knows your love
And the answers 
That come from above
With faith and assurance
That your love
Will give me all I need
Today, tomorrow, forever
Throughout eternity

The Wolf's Pockets

“The Wolf’s Pockets”




Virginia knows 
what’s written 
in the mass of a rock
the heaviness of words
not soluble
anchored to life
that does not float

A Wolf swallows Woolf whole
Hungry for something -
 
“other than”  ;

Submerged, 
what is not seen 
is swimming below 
a sharp clean surface
her dissolving shadow
found through slender fingers
wide spread and ink stained 
running through shallow waters and
swaying reeds, something forgotten
like touching her child’s hair
combed with a soft brush;  
free diving deeper
baptised, she touches Heaven
baby’s breath and 
almond scented
Erin lilies like milk,
the sweetest let-down,
she drinks it all in
ignored by charlatans all bored
with their own faux wisdom
apathy flexes fits and moulds
around a body of work
sinks in deep and dry
a sunken treasure
to be found
some time much later

bound to tell a story
that travels down stream

The Wolf’s pockets
weighted with black treasure
 
open wide and beckoning
arms cast wanton alms 
for plenty dreams and 
sweet reckoning

infancy embraced again
the sleep of sleeps 
and candour 
like opium is taken in,
read, edited,
then,

silently missed 

a
Final Draft is written 

Read again
Read again


;


(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
for my daughter
Georgia




https://youtu.be/BpyR9VxRRUo
Freefall/Robin Guthrie




“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Virginia Woolf






1. Virginia Woolf
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Woolf

2. The Let-down Reflex.

3. https://projectsemicolon.com/

https://www.facebook.com/projectsemicolon/

https://twitter.com/projsemicolon?lang=en

4. Beyond Blue
https://www.beyondblue.org.au/

Dry As A Bone



Imagine an oil stroke on a virgin canvass 
an image coaxed out by a velvet hand
pas de deux artist and brush
here comes the wind 
and suddenly, I appear out of nowhere 
Imagine my memories invisible as air 
a non violate kiss somewhere out there 
here comes the image,  
of a two step process, the artist and I
wonderfully etched, I pop up;  
Imagine my visage, aging flower of old 
existing in a turbulent rotation    
eyes of a cougar, soul of a lion 
I am Virginia Woolf the writer 
like a binding book I appear pressed

Continued survival on a canvass of dry,  
parched as a stone in a pocket, alone...

Premium Member It's a Langston Hughes kind of day

It's a Langston Hughes kind of day 
filled with dutiful hints of Robert frost 
within the sudden humor and vague 
eccentricity of Ernest hemmingway 
the quiet freedom of Nikki Giovanni 
with a cunning soul shaking enlightment 
of Maya Angelo tinged with the noble
excitement of John keats as the clouds 
move into this rapture an intriguing sheer 
fondness of William butler Yeats while 
the soft dem lights over the lake hits 
my minds eye just so as I'm quite 
taken by the sinking thoughts of 
Virginia woolf beckoning my innermost 
calm peeking through wooden slats 
exposing the granduer of Gwendolyn Brooks 
smile mastering greatness beneath broken 
planks on the sunscreen porches even so 
i dare change a thing about this glorious 
day this Langston Hughes kind of day
Form: Epyllion

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