Long Wert Poems
Long Wert Poems. Below are the most popular long Wert by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wert poems by poem length and keyword.
As I was set to go out on my horse
One eve, despite pleads to stay from my course,
Prone I was to take my hat from the rack,
A whirlwind crested from the dusty tract,
Lifting dead leaves from Aravalli hills,
Twirling them high along the palace ills,
While a loud peal of a wild laughter rose,
And soon died in the land the sun follows,
Robbing my dare and joy ride in the wood,
It robbed too my ***** English hat for good.
The night was old when unknown sobs I heard,
Heart-rending, stifled, right below my bed,
Nay, as if from an unknown nether world,
Perchance from many a sacrificed head,
From darkling depths of a damp grave of old,
A voice piteously crying taking my hold,
Imploring me, ‘do something, rescue me
From what eternal prison seems to be,
This deathlike slumber, fruitless dreamy ills,
Place me beside a racing horse saddle,
Press me close to your heart, riding through hills,
And woods, and across a dried-out puddle,
Take me to sunny spots from dark, new thrills.
Many a doubt flashed in my silent mind:
Why of all me, how can I rescue thee?
What passions shall draw thee out and ashore?
O Beauty, from this wild whirlpool of dreams,
Do tell me whence didst thou flourish and when,
By which cool spring, in what shady date-groves,
Thou wert born in whose lap, in what homeless
Wanderer, what desert, and which
Bedouin Snatched thee from mom’s arms, do tell me,
A mere bud wert thou plucked from a creeper,
And placed upon a horse, lightning swift flash,
Far, far across the scorching desert sands,
O to slave-mart of what royal city?
Seeing the glory of blossoming youth,
To which chieftain hast thou been taken to,
Placing thee in a golden palanquin
As royal gift fit for an emperor.
__________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
“My brother would not have died if You’d been with us!
I ne’er thought You would not be here,
You knew him he was sick to death,
And we kept our belief on Thee,
Thou wert elsewhere with Thy disciples,
And we sent Thee a word of supplication.
We knew not our supplication touched Thee or not,
Yet we believed in The, the Man of God.
You knew we’re all in distress and so we cried unto Thee.
The Scriptures revealed of Thy Power of God,
And so we longed for Thy Presence.
But why did You leave us in distress?
Thou hast taught us that Thou wilt be ‘midst two or three in Thy Name.
Now our brother is dead. Where’s our faith?
Have we sold our faith to our doubt in Thee
Or Thou art testing our faith in Thee?
The world is in pain and sorrow, engulfed by sicknesses,
Can we doubt whether Thou art with us or not?
The Scriptures say:” this world is held by the Tempter,
So pray unceasing to escape this evil world.”
The Scriptures have foretold:”the Son of Man would be crucified,
Buried, but would be raised on the third day.”
Is our inward eye hidden from Heaven’s mystery?
The Son of Man’s mind speaketh:
“My brethren, My Father hath a Divine Plan for thee all,
And I AM the Mediator ‘twixt thee and My Father,
And I can’t tell thee of My Father’s Plan,
For He hath His own time to reveal unto thee all,
And the time is in Me to call thee all unto Me,
So I must lay my fleshy body into corruption for thy sins once for all.
Ye all knew how sin entered this world ---- by Disobedience!
Sin is My Father’s deadly foe and doubt is a sin.
The first parents doubted God’s Command and so died,
Yet My Father opened a New Way in Me.
A few found the Way, but many lost by their selfish gods.
Ye, folks of the world! I hear you all say:
“If You’d been with us, we would not have been left astray.”
The Scriptures say: “My Father is Omniscient, Omnipotent and Omnipresent.”
I never leave thee, I never forsake thee,
For I AM yesterday, today and forever.
Thou doubted My Father’s Presence with thee,
And I say: ‘doubt is a sin.’
And a sin has its consequences, and the sinner has to bear them awhile.
Have no doubt in Me, and I Will be with thee all.”
Ancient Greek and Roman Epigrams I
Wall, we're astonished that you haven't collapsed,
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
Ancient Roman graffiti, translation by Michael R. Burch
You begrudge men your virginity?
Why? To what purpose?
You will find no one to embrace you in the grave.
The joys of love are for the living.
But in Acheron, dear virgin,
we shall all lie dust and ashes.
—Asclepiades of Samos, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me live with joy today, since tomorrow is unforeseeable.
?Michael R Burch, after Palladas of Alexandria
Now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the night:
his owner’s faithful Maltese...
but will he still bark again, on sight?
?Michael R Burch, after Tymnes
Poor partridge, poor partridge, lately migrated from the rocks;
our cat bit off your unlucky head; my offended heart still balks!
I put you back together again and buried you, so unsightly!
May the dark earth cover you heavily: heavily, not lightly...
so she shan’t get at you again!
?Michael R Burch, after Agathias
Hunter partridge,
we no longer hear your echoing cry
along the forest's dappled feeding ground
where, in times gone by,
you would decoy speckled kinsfolk to their doom,
luring them on,
for now you too have gone
down the dark path to Acheron.
?Michael R Burch, after Simmias
Wert thou, O Artemis,
overbusy with thy beast-slaying hounds
when the Beast embraced me?
?Michael R Burch, after Diodorus of Sardis
Dead as you are, though you lie as
still as cold stone, huntress Lycas,
my great Thessalonian hound,
the wild beasts still fear your white bones;
craggy Pelion remembers your valor,
splendid Ossa, the way you would bound
and bay at the moon for its whiteness
as below we heard valleys resound.
And how brightly with joy you would leap and run
the strange lonely peaks of high Cithaeron!
?Michael R Burch, after Simonides
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Greek, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, epitaphs, translations, elegy, elegies, eulogy, eulogies, death, grave, funeral, lament, mourning, loss, pain, bereavement
Ride, ride, ride thou figure from the East
In thy curse hath many a mother wept
On thy brow the furrows of distant steppes
Yield unto a steely mask of doom
Destruction follows in thy path and yet
Methinks I spy a flicker of regret
Extinguish it lest humanity engulf it betimes
As distant lands fall under your encompassing sway.
A fire burns, a coward trembles in his tent
What's won is rent from hands too numb to feel
The surging, coursing power of thy grip
Let slip thine enemies, let thy repute
Incite counsel of war then savor the fruit
Of a thousand-footed gathering of days
The purpled way, the jewel-encrusted chalice
Of wine claret. Drink to your heart's content.
If I were thou and thou wert I my friend
I should not pause to see the ground below
For lonely be the lofty heights, perpend:
Far art faren, far remains to go
Nor bride, nor bairn, nor comfort in repose
Hath sped thee on thy way from whence we ride
The rudest nutriments, the barest clothes
Sans bed, sans friend, sans tout, bare ground thou lie'.
Now polished steel glistens, mirrors gray
The slanting dome of sky's inverted bowl
Oiled leather on black courser's velvet skin
And restless hooves an inch in sodden loam
A leathern mask, five halberds thus skyward
Stand, barren hillock's strange reeds
Sprouting in the wind-swept smoke
Of morning's hasty decampment. Thus proceed
These men unto a destiny untold.
Of Indus, Asia, Europe, northern climes
Of snow, of sand and vine, the watery strand
I sing. Dismount and pluck the crocus sweet
But brief, then crush beneath thy heel. Spur on!
Ghengis Khan!
Of Afrique dark and thrice-looted Rome
Thy story-tellers may rhyme and make song.
Home, home rider from the East return
Scorch the earth and burn to cindered ash
Laugh with all the mirth thy new-found freedom
Might yield unto thy solitary path
Unlearn the lessons civil, richness hath
Bone and marrow, thew and sinew softened
Thy courser turn the sod, horizon calls
Spur on! Sing thy song, thy name live on
Ghengis Khan
Love's Compass Rose
( Valentine Poem 2018)
From the East we set out,
Gathering steam;
A rising sun ignites
The birth of the dream,
Celestial fire lights
The path of youthful love,
Finding its way upon
The blinding heights
Of Spring's unbounded passions.
Heedless we, by days and nights
Of Destiny or Destination.
Then moved by Nature's own determination,
To the South we turned
Our yet-young steps,
Down to where the long Summer burned,
Bloomed, and its tendrils crept
Alongside all the way,
Sometimes caught
Sometimes slowed our tread -
Yet still we strode, all down the day
Arm weaved in arm
We held each other sway
Until the Summer gave us all Her best.
Then we turned us to the West;
Where now we wend our careful way
Through the land of gold and red
Where the taste of cold hangs in the day
And what is said and left unsaid
Colors all the cooling air
Drawing us nearer, step by step
To the silent North
As it paints the frostlines in our hair.
Now I would not wish to be a boy again;
Thou art now to me more passing fair
Then thou wert to me before, and so...
In the end it's to the North we go,
Up high above, to the silent land
Where the diamonds of the sky shine true
Where together we shall stop and stand
Thee with me, I with you
Reviewing all the good things we've done,
Then call it good, as the night comes down
To wrap us in its starry arms.
In this ending we have won
The rewards of patient labor.
The Winter of the North will welcome us at last
As the present is the only child of the past
So goes the Circle, 'round and 'round.
We go around Love's Compass Rose,
With some things lost, others found,
Wondering at the things we chose
To keep or cast aside.
When it's done, the time spent
If it was well done, there may be more,
There may be more betide;
We may be given to go 'round again,
To meet my Joy, my Wife, my Pride -
Somewhere South of Seventeen.
A pair of slave girls waved chamar to thee,
As diamonds flashed with light of lamps well lit,
A king of kings must have fallen to knee,
To strip out bejewelled shoes from thy fair feet,
While Abyssinian eunuch of foulest breath
And looking like a harbinger of death,
Though clad like a gay angel somewhat odd,
And standing guard O with a naked sword,
Perhaps, might have secured thy stately room,
Then wonder I, what should have caused the doom
Of thy death, O thou flower of desert,
What swept away glory of thy grandeur?
What kind of jealousy O could have hurt
Thee? And what kind of intrigue oh ever?
To what shore of cruel death wert thou cast?
At what damndest of land? I feel aghast.
A query riddled in my memory
For long as was writhing through reverie,
I heard a scream when of Maher Ali,
‘Stand back, stand back, all this is fairy tale',
And my servant handed letters to me,
While salaam from the cook looked all too stale.
‘No more can I stay in this eerie place',
And packed off to move to my work amidst
Souls in solid flesh, life alive in grace,
My servant smiled, whilst hopeful of the least.
Yet, by the eve giddy minded I grew,
And felt as if I had a tryst to keep,
Office work seemed an act of bread from blue,
A better harvest was when there to reap,
And I threw all aside to drive away,
Not stopping till the palace was in sight,
The day as wished sun well, it was twilight,
With hurried steps I took stairs to my way.
__________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
As cave-dweller O man, thou wert crudest,
Ere civilized and a bit social made,
In a painstaking long march to the crest,
Evolving— a seed of creed mutated,
Ye struggled long before brought home baked bread,
As weeds lose out ere mutate in maze
Of labyrinthine lanes darker than dread,
From chaos were created newer ways.
No growth hast grown that would not get modest,
Undeterred, no head hath moved nigh ahead,
All progress in time tends to pause post-haste,
As brightest rainbows fizzle out to fade—
The nature of Nature none can evade,
Nature unfolds in long phase, not in days,
To vales turn top peaks that were once jaded,
Creation as comes in chaotic ways.
In eons human hope kissed vales and crest,
Surviving in cosmic womb, never dead,
Suffering birth pain quite un-manifest,
Remember, yon of that tall mountain head
Lies your fond dream. Do walk on, go ahead,
Not just on peaks, hope lives in vales, at base,
In journey too to enjoy, never dread,
A way forward comes from chaotic ways.
Envoi
Keep climbing, if hope be the only aid,
Inhale hope in every breath, don’t just gaze,
At rope’s end, O hang on by just hope-led,
For, from chaos are built morrow’s fairways.
____________________________________
Musings | 03.02.2011 | Hope
Poet’s note: Heart, it seems, lives on the edge of hope. The brooding head hesitates, delves into new depths, meanders, groping for a way out. Seeing the way much of the world is moving today, one tends to indulge in melancholic thoughts. Has man lost all hopes? I don't know but hope, it’s not so. Civilization, I suspect, is an inverted bell-shaped curve. Things get worse before they get better. Read also my ‘Hope: A bird wordless that sings', a ballade.
On this day thou wert born forty and nine years ago,
Scores and scores of trials passed thy way,
And we watched them together passing like storms.
I let my inward eye perceive thy birth from thy ‘mother’s womb’:
Thou fed on by the umbilical cord of her, but she had no love for the foetus,
She nourished her body, but had no mind to nourish thee within.
The day of thy entry dawned, but she thought it was sunset to her life,
She thought she had walked through woods ’mongst bushes.
She had ne’er taken thee unto fresh streams,
Yet a mystical guidance handled thee with care.
Thy ‘mother’s womb’ too reluctantly carried thy brother foetus,
And he too was made to see the bleak world.
Thou wert brought unto a lovely soul which nurtured thee,
And watched thee grow in her arms till ‘that’ day broke out.
A black cloud shrouded thee, and there was no sun in thy life.
It was the day that showers from Above had drenched thee,
Thou wert cherished by the warmth of the sun,
And the moon sang lullaby each night for thee,
And the stars delighted thee with their chorus notes.
We travelled thro’ life, a blend of tempests and breezes,
And the game of life taught us its rules and philosophies,
And we were blessed with a Heavenly reward,
And it is the little angel who taught us the meaning of life.
It is the Hand mystical with the unquestionable mystery living with us,
And till this day He hath not left us alone,
And it’s the day of Thanks presented unto HIM.
Rejoice! Let’s rejoice with HIM!
For we’re in HIS Arms hidden deep in HIS Love.
O thou world’s tallest mount of might,
Like a gawky adolescent,
Added hast thou to thy old height,
I bow to thy quickest ascent.
Thou, with thy siblings so many
In the abode of hoary snow,
At fifty million years of age,
With Eurasian plate had a blow.
And where there was a roaring sea
There came tall peaks that kissed the sky--
A snow abode in Himalaya
That dwarfed all its siblings well-nigh.
O Mother Earth’s youngest mountain,
Like all youths ye grow ever since,
And off late with little restrain,
I bow to thy height-causing genes.
Thou wert known by many a name--
Chomolungma, one of them--
Goddess of the mountain valley,
Tibetans’ spiritual emblem.
In Nepal thou art known as
Sagarmatha, variation
From the original Sanskrit,
That meant ‘the peak head of heaven’.
And Indians had had their own names:
Giri Shikhar, peak of a mount,
Gauri Shankar yet another,
Many, one may quite lose the count.
And yet, the Brits borrowed one more,
And for no reason forced Everest
That hardly fits to thy pied lore,
I’d more rather Mt Neverest!
Yet, Everest ruled o’er the rest,
Thou wert put to test, long unrest,
When they got to thy highest crest,
To thee, new burden on thy chest!
____________________________
Ode |17.10.2024| mountain
Poet’s note: ‘New burden on thy chest’ alludes to the fact that Everest has today become a junkyard of things discarded by scores of climbers.
“The Dream”
there were dreams
some lived them
others dreamt them
silently lying in their
grave chairs waiting
patiently for the
Angel to call
there were dreams
beautiful dreams
others took delight
in smashing their shine
to ash, treading on them
like they were just ...
dreams
there were dreams
that the warriors
took up again
and planted
firmly in the middle
of reality, theirs,
were the dreams
that breathed
and lived again
theirs were the dreams
that grabbed the poetry
ran with it in diverse directions
in all that others could not see
these were the ones
who saw the truth in dreams
and lived a life of love
doused in passion living
honest victory
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun..."
Roca Vecchia, Puglia, Italy
Grotta della Poesia, "The Cave of Poetry", Puglia, Italy