"inspirer" poems
PART II: A GLASS CEILING DRIPPING WITH BLOOD
Mohanad Younis, of Gaza City;
Where the sand is stained with blood
As the world feigns pity.
Broken families, unspoken tragedies –
The order of everyday life.
He was born amidst chaos and strife,
To a divorcing husband and wife.
If life were lived in peace,
This dissolution would’ve been a release.
Not much more, not much less –
A family’s lore, a decision to digress.
In war-ravaged land, however,
One needs every helping hand,
Especially a soul that was so clever.
Such a curious, voracious mind needed to understand;
A furious, rapacious search,
Unexplained conundrums to unravel and unwind.
Why do we exist?
Why do we fight and resist?
Is it worth living with all these scars on my wrists?
Does anybody outside Palestine care?
Will they keep on watching?
Or will they be unable to bear?
Of this and much more Mohanad must’ve thought,
As he sat at the Marna House Hotel,
Smoking cigarettes, freshly bought.
A student at al-Azhar, a mild-mannered pharmacist,
A prudent man who would have gotten far.
An admirer of Bassel al-Araj, another victim of oppression –
An inspirer, a brother who alleviated his depression.
Hunted down and killed by the IDF,
Another pacifist murdered for being an activist.
One figure of many who died;
One of those who did not want to hide.
Mohanad wasn’t a resistance fighter –
He felt that such persistence did not make their burdens lighter.
Instead, he wished to make his mind brighter,
And perhaps have family of his own.
He was in love, and wanted to get married,
But life was rough, and warranted a future far more harried.
The final twist of horror?
Having the intellect to apply for University,
And deserving the respect needed to obtain a reply,
Yet not being allowed to leave the city.
That is the news Mohanad had received,
Hopes and dreams suddenly deceived.
Denied a right to education
Because he was born on the wrong end of a cruel fabrication.
The glass ceiling, dripping with blood,
Swallowed his hopes whole like a flood.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
You are not a teacher.
You are a:
wisdom-imparter
confidence-booster,
esteem-increaser,
fun-creator,
book-reader,
essay-writer,
dedication-inspirer,
love-definer,
joy-inducer,
enthusiasm-evoker,
wonder-explorer,
beauty-demonstrator,
knowledge-sharer,
thrill-designer,
truth-teller,
excitement-architect,
student-encourager,
A friend.
You are not a teacher.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
I. TO DIONYSUS (21 lines) (1)
((LACUNA))
(ll. 1-9) For some say, at Dracanum; and some, on windy Icarus;
and some, in Naxos, O Heaven-born, Insewn (2); and others by the
deep-eddying river Alpheus that pregnant Semele bare you to Zeus
the thunder-lover. And others yet, lord, say you were born in
Thebes; but all these lie. The Father of men and gods gave you
birth remote from men and secretly from white-armed Hera. There
is a certain Nysa, a mountain most high and richly grown with
woods, far off in Phoenice, near the streams of Aegyptus.
((LACUNA))
(ll. 10-12) '...and men will lay up for her (3) many offerings in
her shrines. And as these things are three (4), so shall mortals
ever sacrifice perfect hecatombs to you at your feasts each three
years.'
(ll. 13-16) The Son of Cronos spoke and nodded with his dark
brows. And the divine locks of the king flowed forward from his
immortal head, and he made great Olympus reel. So spake wise
Zeus and ordained it with a nod.
(ll. 17-21) Be favourable, O Insewn, Inspirer of frenzied women!
we singers sing of you as we begin and as we end a strain, and
none forgetting you may call holy song to mind. And so,
farewell, Dionysus, Insewn, with your mother Semele whom men call
Thyone.
__________
The Homeric Hymns in the Hello Poetry collection are provided by:
Online Medieval and Classical Library.
Source site: http://omacl.org/Hesiod/hymns.html
4.2k
Waiting my turn to pay
For the items we need today;
The beans and the chili
And some picklelilli
And costly imported pate.
A headline that says glaringly
What some starlet does daringly.
What I see before my eyes
A big edition full of lies
They put here to tempt me daringly.
Where childbirth oddities
Are viewed as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.
We all know these stories
Are anecdotal glories
Made up by the magazines;
The tawdriest ever seen
And they don’t mind getting gory.
It’s yellow journalism
A sort of print format ****
Intended for the kind of fool
Who never finished school
And falls for jingoism.
Where childbirth oddities
Are views as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.
Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
Rakesh Rai is as sweet as sugar;
Whenever you are in deep anger
Go to Rakesh, Anti-hatemonger;
He never his duties did Malinger
He has been as sweet as sugar;
Sooths one down and is eager
To help whom problems appear.
I never found him an Ogre;
With him I always felt stronger
He can easily fight wildest tiger.
He is a tiger in education stronger
Who advised to stay Sanket eager;
But as I had Monorhyme dearer
I left such a strong man ever.
Regret though Sanket have, Sugar
Will leave me and my poem never.
Problems does not persist longer
With him let it be old or younger.
With him tensions, no doubt, linger
A lot of worry and threats augur,
What use is Salad without vinegar;
Hard but useful is Rakesh like timber.
Rakesh sir is as sweet as sugar.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC
Alfred, j'ai vu des jours où nous vivions en frères,
Servant les mêmes dieux aux autels littéraires :
Le ciel n'avait formé qu'une âme pour deux corps ;
Beaux jours d'épanchement, d'amour et d'harmonie,
Où ma voix à la tienne incessamment unie
Allait se perdre au ciel en de divins accords.
Qui de nous a changé ? Pourquoi dans la carrière
L'un court-il en avant, laissant l'autre en arrière ?
Lequel des deux soldats a déserté les rangs ?
Pourquoi ces deux vaisseaux qui naviguaient ensemble,
Désespérant déjà d'un port qui les rassemble,
Vont-ils chercher si **** des bords si différents ?
Je n'ai pas dévoué mon maître aux gémonies,
Je n'ai pas abreuvé de fiel et d'avanies
L'idole où mes genoux s'usaient à se plier :
Je n'ai point du passé répudié la trace,
J'y suis resté fidèle, et n'ai point, comme Horace,
Au milieu du combat jeté mon bouclier.
Non, c'est toi qui changeas. Un nom qui se révèle
T'éblouit des rayons de sa gloire nouvelle.
Tu vois dans le bourgeon le fruit qui doit mûrir :
Mécène du Virgile et saint Jean du Messie,
Tu répands en tous lieux la saint Prophétie,
Tu sèmes la parole et tu la fais fleurir.
Je ne suis pas de ceux qui vont dans les ******
S'inspirer aux lueurs blafardes des bougies,
Qui dans l'air obscurci par les vapeurs du vin,
Tentent de ranimer leur muse exténuée,
Comme un vieillard flétri qu'une prostituée
Sous ses baisers impurs veut réchauffer en vain.
C'est ainsi que j'entends l'œuvre de poésie :
Chacun de nous s'est fait l'art à sa fantaisie,
Chacun de nous l'a vu d'un différent côté.
Prisme aux mille couleurs, chaque œil en saisit une
Suivant le point divers où l'a mis la fortune :
Dieu lui seul peut tout voir dans son immensité.
Conserve la croyance et respecte la nôtre,
Apôtre dévoué de la gloire d'un autre ;
Fais-toi du nouveau Dieu confesseur et martyr,
Ne crois pas que mon cœur cède comme une argile
Ni que ta voix, prêchant le nouvel Évangile,
Si chaude qu'elle soit, puisse me convertir.
Adieu. Garde ta foi, garde ton opulence.
Laisse-moi recueillir mon cœur dans le silence,
Laisse-moi consumer mes jours comme un reclus ;
Pardonne cependant à cette rêverie,
C'est le chant d'un proscrit en quittant la patrie,
C'est la voix d'un ami que tu n'entendras plus.
749
Aphrodite’s gift
Ah love, how well you thrive within this my mortal breast.
Blossoming forth daily, new spring shoots
From within this soil.
And Oh, with what subjects you choose to seed us.
Oh Face! Oh amorous face!
Eager lips, silken hair, such *******
and wit.
Yet in the discovery thereof,
I must confess, even my heated desires
Did begin to despair, till wanton fancy allowed
my eager mind, already pierced
by cupids dainty missiles,
that she must , indeed, have one.
So oft our amorous conversation,
So oft abused by the fairer ***
Did dwindle, as I ran out of breath, and thoughts
With which to inspire this inspirer of my heart,
That I soon believed some childhood misfortune
Had cleft her powers complete and left her dumb.
I presented her with books, she read then not;
Teased her with romances, games, metaphysics, and finally
Discussed the weather, which she agreed was most dismal.
Such joy, there is, in those whose ready minds can leap
With resolution, ever to matters other than tea,
And whether the weather would permit us to do this or that.
She more like a rose grew at every moment,
And I, like Endimion, pious lover of the Moon,
At last, near beside myself with how to contend with such a wit,
I attempted to loosen her sequestered mind, for I still believed it to exist,
as I had her *******
with those amorous spirits of Bacchus
that so enliven the hearts of mankind with joy and laughter.
Woe! Oh Woe! All for naught,
To quote an author of some repute,
Hoping his forgiveness for my theft.
“Wine dulls the spirit of the dull mind.”
My poor child fell quite asleep.
I must admit that it took a severe inspection
To perceive the difference.
“My Dear”, quoth I, voice filled with finality.
“Tis time to discontinue”
She woke, her eyes filled, she vowed she loved,
Then running out of words, left.
No mortal soul should question the working of Aphrodite’s wonders.
Yet, I must respectfully and with all due reverence
To this most lovely goddess, request,
My love’s antithesis,
Who being ugly, will more than suffice with wit.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Says to She causes she is me
The sun she seeks
Is the truth she speaks
Light like radiant beams
That breaks the dark
To soften each broken heart
And bring the warmer affections
To those who have been neglected
To calm furies that should not exist
And stoke the flames of rage
Where anger needs to persist
To help people resist
The chains that try and tie us down
To give every artist the wings
Of the Angelic hosts who in rebelling sing
Of freedom from an eternal being
Let her be the better part of humanity
So when this oval earth egg
Loses her loving presence
There will still be a bit of her essence
Left to linger and inspire
This human race to be les bitter
And much, much better
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
I've always been a big admirer of Jesus
Though not for religous reasons
He is the all time greatest inspirer
The greatest message
of hope and love
there has ever been
The finest example
of a human being
we have ever produced
The giver of all givers
Loving and caring for Everyone
His light still
and always will
shine on brighter
than any other
Although humbly
Hope through love
And he will be our savior
But not from the bible in his hand
From the love in his heart
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
it brings me down
tears me apart limb from limb
brakes and grinds my bones to dust
cut and cooks my fleash to feed the lesser
but little does life it know i am in control of what it does
ever grain of bone is going around and inspiring people
ever fiber of flesh makes the people strounger
so go ahead and tear me apart it will inspirer more
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Sois de bronze et de marbre et surtout sois de chair
Certes, prise l'orgueil nécessaire plus cher,
Pour ton combat avec les contingences vaines ;
Que les poils de ta barbe ou le sang de tes veines ;
Mais vis, vis pour souffrir, souffre pour expier,
Expie et va-t'en vivre et puis reviens prier,
Prier pour le courage et la persévérance
De vivre dans ce siècle, hélas ! et cette France,
Siècle et France ignorants et tristement railleurs.
(Mais le règne est plus haut et la patrie ailleurs
Et la solution est autre du problème.)
Sois de chair et même aime cette chair, la même
Que celle de Jésus sur terre et dans les cieux,
Et dans le Très Saint-Sacrement si précieux
Qu'il n'est de comparable à sa valeur que celle
De ta chair vénérable en sa moindre parcelle
Et dans le moindre grain de l'Hostie à l'autel ;
Car ce mystère, l'Incarnation, est tel,
Par l'exégèse autour comme par sa nature ;
Qu'il fait égale au Créateur la créature,
Cependant que, par un miracle encor plus grand,
L'Eucharistie, elle, les confond et les rend
Identiques. Or cette chair expiatoire.
Fais-t'en une arme douloureuse de victoire
Sur l'orgueil que Satan peut d'elle t'inspirer
Pour l'orgueil qu'à jamais tu peux considérer
Comme le prix suprême et le but enviable.
Tout le reste n'est rien que malice du diable !
Alors, oui, sois de bronze impassible, revêts
L'armure inaccessible à braver le Mauvais,
Pudeur, Calme, Respect, Silence et Vigilance.
Puis sois de marbre, et pur, sous le heaume qui lance
Par ses trous le regard de tes yeux assurés,
Marche à pas révérents sur les parvis sacrés.
438
Céleste fille du poète,
La vie est un hymne à deux voix.
Son front sur le tien se reflète,
Sa lyre chante sous tes doigts.
Sur tes yeux quand sa bouche pose
Le baiser calme et sans frisson,
Sur ta paupière blanche et rose
Le doux baiser à plus de son.
Dans ses bras quand il te soulève
Pour te montrer au ciel jaloux,
On croit voir son plus divin rêve
Qu'il caresse sur ses genoux !
Quand son doigt te permet de lire
Les vers qu'il vient de soupirer,
On dirait l'âme de sa lyre
Qui se penche pour l'inspirer.
Il récite ; une larme brille
Dans tes yeux attachés sur lui.
Dans cette larme de sa fille
Son cœur nage ; sa gloire a lui !
Du chant que ta bouche répète
Son cœur ému jouit deux fois.
Céleste fille du poète,
La vie est une hymne à deux voix.
395
i do not care for grand glory, nor fame,
for inspiring just one, means all the same.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 8:29 PM UTC
Sonnet.
Je suis belle, ô mortels ! comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s'est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Éternel et muet ainsi que la matière.
Je trône dans l'azur comme un sphinx incompris ;
J'unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes ;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.
Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j'ai l'air d'emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d'austères études ;
Car j'ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles :
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles !
283
Si je veux que ma destinée ne soit pas semblable à un jour de pluie
Je dois pas investir dans un parapluie
Mais plustot prendre ce que je considère comme la petite chose que je fais maintenant au sérieux,
Elle doit être productive pas seulement en billets
Elle doit aussi sinon donner du sens a ma vie
Je dois me dire qu'un jour je regarderai derrière et avec un sourire je benirai Dieu pour la force qu'il m'a donné de tenir bon
Il ya que Lui mon Abris mon Défenseur mon admirable Conseiller
A cela je doit ajouter
Que je raconterai mon Histoire pour encourager
Que j'écrirais ma bibliographie pour aménager les esprits
Je donnerai mon témoignage pour inspirer
Et je prendrai exemple sur moi-même pour aspirer a plus grand
Aujourd'hui je suis convaincue que
Je ne dois pas lire les bibliographie de mes patriarches pour comprendre la clé de leur succès
Je dois les lire pour avoir un aperçu des obstacles et des monstres auquelles je ferai face pendant mon ascension, et m'attendre a ce que les miens soit plus féroces
Ou prier pour cela
Aujourd'hui je demande a la vie de ne pas me sourir
Je lui promets que demain je lui sourirait en lui disant merci de n'avoir pas été facile avec moi
D'avoir été un enseignant impartiale
Sep 20, 2021
Sep 20, 2021 at 2:35 AM UTC
Every poet is a wonderful poem lover,
Should you not halt to be an inspirer,
Let the world know who you are,
Even if a thing remains just a scar.
Every poem is created by a wonderful poet,
Should you not halt to interpret--
Of someone's love that is also yours,
Though it was for them, not yours.
Love is a painful word for those who cannot attain,
But let it just become a pain,
For someday as a poet -- poetry will be your love in life,
May it be in the afterlife.
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 4:27 AM UTC
Your art, my eyes fascinate over
The detail so plenty, my focus, undecided
An inspiration for it, I fail to find
An inspirer, has it become.
My first glance taken, intrigue built
Paint or pastel; bewildered I am left
Art at its finest, I concede
Your marks, deceptive of your youth.
Commend you do I, to soon for your efforts
Your work incomplete, told; unnoticed
My eyes revert to its previous indulgence
Beauty defined, seen; an artists' mind exceeding the viewers.
Repetition a joy, not a task
An admirer I have become, awaiting the last stroke.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC