Long Xiv Poems
Long Xiv Poems. Below are the most popular long Xiv by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Xiv poems by poem length and keyword.
Another year has come; the old one past,
its stored memories gathered in like grain
into the heart's treasury. Let no bane
there enter to destroy. Again thou hast
protected me against the fearful blast
of winter's barren cold and bitter rain,
a coat you gave to me of love unfeigned;
a shield against the stormy surges, vast;
a cloak to wrap around your turtle dove,
like Hannah brought to Samuel each year
in celebration of the birth of love,
the promise of Jehovah held most dear
to her whose prayer prompted heaven above:
thus covered, I embrace another year.
Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson
At this very moment coolies screamed, ‘train',
We scampered, packing up our bags and bales;
A long-awaited train’s at times a bane,
But this one turned a boon, such were the tales.
An English gentleman hailed our hero
From his carriage, and we parted to go
Our diverse ways—to our cattle-class seats.
There was no chance to know who that man was,
Nor could more light upon his tale be lit;
Indeed, never-ending may prove some pause.
Some truths, some lies of life lie ever so;
Maybe, he took us as credulous fools.
A painful nerve, if anxious, seldom cools,
Some truths and lies forever curious grow.
Perchance the man minted fun at our cost,
And damsels in distress lay buried, lost.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIV 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.
Allure,
Winds capture then release
open with appease
flutter in the tease
and deepened trust
motion, flirting with an ease
flickers, a jaded breeze
the rush of a sacred sea
overcoming impossibility
wet, more than water streams
filtering the cracks and every seam
molten gold, we're burning red
engraved and alive
entrenched inside
elaborate
intimacy paints the tides
seen with touch
felt with heart
the soul knows
the soul knows
whispers in the night
holding, holding on
holding her
it's so so right
roads weaving from the past
two strings that did not pass
tied together and Bonded
exploring all the tiny details
thru time,
a love
can forever last
A Cry to the Vicar of Christ
On the eighth of May—
in the year the world was wounded—
white smoke rose,
and the Spirit whispered:
Leo XIV.
Not a crown,
but a cross.
Not glory—
but Gethsemane.
Go now,
Holy Father,
to Gaza,
where God bleeds quietly
under shattered mosques.
A child cries without sound.
A mother digs without grave.
Hope is ash.
Peace is myth.
And still—
your hands are clean.
Go to the sons of empire—
tell them:
No more prayers dipped in petrol.
No more justice from jets.
No more peace purchased with pain.
And to Israel,
tell Benjamin:
God is not your sword.
He is your witness.
Every Palestinian child
is a gospel we’ve burned.
Every mother,
a Madonna without her Christ.
Go also to Congo. Sudan. Libya. Ukraine.
Do not wave.
Do not preach.
Walk.
Bleed.
Kneel.
Did you not hear Romero,
when the soil sang blood in El Salvador?
The Church was never meant
to hide behind stained glass.
Let the Vatican strip gold from its bones.
Let the cassock gather dust.
Let the Pope
become a man.
For when Pope Francis passed,
he whispered:
“Reality is more than ideas.”
And Gaza is real.
God weeps there still.
Let history write,
not of sermons,
but of a man in white
who saved God
in Gaza.