"sumerian" poems
Shamans, in an attempt to find a word that all cultures could understand, to represent, universally, the subject; married the languages by root.
Each attribute or thing that the beast is said to do, have or have power to do or over is found as a definition in a language of the individual roots.
Take Sanskrit for instance. "Dra," is "water and combine it with Sumerian, "Gun, Gon," and you get a "water-born," beast who "writhes, twists or wraps around," which is the Ouroboros Serpent as shown in ancient images.
The secret to all ancient myth or religion is in interpretation of language into foreign languages over time.
And, yes, it is very creative, appears complex due to time but is just humans trying to describe observable nature.
None of it is meant to be taken literally unless you literally live six thousand years ago and speak in an ancient tongue.
Addendum
* Keltic, "Con, Kon," makes the Dragon, "All-knowing." *
And we know from Plato that Greeks
stole their root words from the Celts.
Plato's own words in,
'The Cratylus.'
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
You-will-not-lie, -bed-chambers-long,
For I, -am-coming-to-get, YOU!
Clawed-through-the-dirt, -up-the-roots,
I am here, -come-to-get, YOU!
Followed-tree-roots, -that-sweet-smelling-Earth!
Here now! -It's time-to-forget-YOUTH.
*HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
Aha Ha Ha Ha, -The Goblins Attack!!* *
*Grab-you-and-cover-those-murmuring-cries.
Drag-you-away, I have got, YOU!
Hungry-I, watering-mouth-glistening-eyes!
Bundle-of-joy, I have got, YOU!
Jump-down-tunnel-for-you-are-my-prize.
Look-at-you-now, my-sweet-tasty-meat-PIE!
*HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
Aha Ha Ha Ha, -The Goblins Attack!!*
Addendum: The name appears to be an amalgamation etymologically of roots from Greek, Sanskrit and Sumerian. If, of course, you choose to translate it that way. I assume Plato to be an authority on the Ancient Greek's tendency to combine the words of multiple mythologies sharing similar characters linguistically. The purpose of the hyphenation is to suggest the tempo and speed of the rhyme's cadence.
Kalikantzaroi
'The Demon's of Earth'
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
They say that music and maths are the worlds unifier,
its non-barrier standard. All can unite in music and maths.
Yet, they forget the literature form of Poetry.
Poetry its long history, dating back to the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh. Evolving from folk songs such as the Chinese Shijing, or from a need to retell oral epics, as with the Sanskrit Vedas, Zoroastrian Gathas, and the Homeric epics.
Poetry is the history of mankind. Memorable for its form, rhyme,
meter, subject, symbolism, metaphors, similes, hidden meanings,
Truth, fantasy and fable.
All human emotion, no matter what colour, gender, creed, faith or belief system, is welcome through poetry, gains from poetry, learns from poetry and in return is taught by poetry.
Those lines in a myriad of languages, styles, form and content is mankind's story, a poem can feed your soul 'Invictus' taught humankind through one man's struggle. Not music, not maths.
From a Sonnet to Shi
Villanelle toTanka
Haiku to Ode
Ghazal to Narrative poetry
Epic poetry to Dramatic poetry
Satirical poetry to Light poetry
Lyric poetry to an Elegy
Verse fable to Prose poetry.
We write poetry because we are human! filled with passion.
And other pursuits are necessary to sustain human life.
But poetry IS what I stay alive for.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
****** means "sheath".
Oh, how tiresomely sexist,
this utility.
**** is a sharp word,
but it will only ***** you
if you so insist.
And ********** means
"to stand in for the Goddess" --
both Mother and *****
Fertility cults
of Babylon hailed Ishtar,
the young Sophia.
In Sumerian times
they did call Her Inanna,
who shed Her jewels.
Solomon the Wise
did wed Her in his temple,
and wrote Her a Song.
At Her temple gates
await the harlots, smiling:
yours for but a coin.
Sacred silver thrown,
a rite of passage. Some wait.
Some wait longer still.
Wisdom works through them.
The hierodules of Heaven
beckon, honeysweet.
"Come to the temple,
let us dance the timeless dance,
my Lord Dumuzi!"
Rosy cheeks and lips,
shamelessness in Her power.
Passion at its peak.
Too **** for words.
Men feared Her and wrought cages,
misdirected blame.
Mary, the chaste one,
is an abomination.
Half, and the lesser.
A neutered Mother
with a ****** for swords,
a scabbard for men.
The Grail was stolen
from between Her holy thighs.
Paul was such a ****
A **** who feared Her,
Mystery of Death and Blood.
Much more than a sheath.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
a late harvest in Brigadoon
plucked from good earth
by strong hands
hauling
uphill, until
a gentle
slope
rewards
a stiff
back; easing
a grateful
burden
that levitates
famine
[ bushels ]
now
ziggarats
in a root
cellar
a Sumerian skyline
of parsnips and rhubarb
with fennel minarets
where Gilgamesh slept
in a pantry of pagan loot
underneath a corner room
at the very back
of a round
house.
where four seasons bunk with an almanac
mason jars of pickled beets
breathing their own blood
hanging gardens from the ceiling
of the Underworld
like fliers of missing children
on telephone poles
i go outside and wander off
you stay home
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
Wise words implanted in human young,
"Behave yourselves, you're young!
No need for you to rebel,
Follow the rules we tell,
But who listens at any age?
Same as in Sumerian days!
"You young have no respect,
Boys look like girls, what the heck!
Your music is total trash,
Your verse is gibberish, ash,
Yes, 4000 years of rebels,
Who follow the rules we tell?
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 9:18 PM UTC
Temple Hymn 22: an Excerpt
to the Sirara Temple of Nanshe
by Enheduanna (circa 2285-2250 BCE)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, house, you wild cow!
Made to conjure signs of the Divine!
You arise, beautiful to behold,
bedecked for your Mistress!
Enheduanna, the daughter of the famous King Saragon the Great of Akkad, is the first ancient writer whose name remains known today. She appears to be the first named poet in human history and the first known author of prayers and hymns. Enheduanna, who lived circa 2285-2250 BCE, is also one of the first women we know by name. She was high priestess of the goddess Inanna (Ishtar/Astarte/Aphrodite) and the moon god Nanna (Sin) in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. Keywords/Tags: Enheduanna, translation, Sirara, Nanshe, Akkad, Sumer, Ur, Sumerian temple hymns
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 6:02 AM UTC
Graze me with your Latin tongue
=O=O=O=O=sharpen it unto Sumerian footstone=O=O=O=O=
lap up the fallen words of you who wrote false scripts
consume,
dictate,
pray/to/the/atmosphere
~drown in thy evermost fear~
Apr 20, 2011
Apr 20, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC
His life was simple—
bound by action of a duplicate
forced to move with military precision.
Nobody’s asked what he thinks
or how he feels—
I just assumed he was ok with this.
He was stuck living a fake life
in a fake world that isn’t his.
While I wrote
he’d rather be fishing.
When I brushed my teeth,
again,
he thought about that Robert Downy Jr. movie he was missing.
One day,
I saw the sadness in his gray, baggy eyes
and offered a cup of coffee, Sumerian.
When he told me Columbian was preferred,
I relieved him—
told him to explore the reality in which he was born.
Before he left
with gleeful abandonment,
I proposed a time to hangout
should he ever be in need of a friend.
He smiled, thankful of my kind gesture,
but simply said,
“I’ve been staring at your face
for a quarter century.
I never want to see you again.”
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 1:26 PM UTC
#
I. Antiquity and the Architecture of Will
In the shadowed corridors of antiquity, where gods were built with teeth and altars stood not for reverence but for control, the Temple of Bel rose as a monument to ********** disguised as divinity. Bel—an assimilated god from earlier Sumerian, Akkadian, and Babylonian traditions—was not the god who walked with man. He was the god who towered above him, demanded sacrifice, and soaked prayer in the blood of repetition.
From the earliest Mesopotamian systems, the act of worship was not about communion, but compulsion. To invoke was to command. To chant was to erode the will of another until it cracked under rhythmic insistence. Whether by priest or supplicant, the act was the same: submission by saturation.
---
II. The Weaponization of Sound: Chant and the Rhythmic Spell
Repetition was not mere ceremony. It was siege.
Chants—carefully crafted phonetic loops—were not benign rituals. They were linguistic architecture meant to house spirits, to summon presence not for beauty, but for enforcement. These were incantations with purpose: to bend the will of another through the veil of mysticism.
In this light, poetry—at its inception—was not always art. It was often sorcery.
The earliest poems were enchantments. They masked seduction as devotion. They twisted longing into ******* They were rhythmic netting, carefully knotted to catch the weak of will and the fractured of self.
---
III. The Modern Construct: Echoes of an Ancient Spell
Those who hide behind the aesthetic of antiquity today still wear the same rings of power.
When a poet writes to control—when they loop trauma like a mantra, repeat seduction as if it were depth, mimic spiritual language to inspire compliance—they are no different than the priests of Bel. They are modern invokers, cloaked in digital incense, spreading spells under the guise of free expression.
Their readers are not disciples. They are targets.
The “construct” is not a movement. It is a spell. A liturgy without light. A series of hollow echoes designed to flatten identity, rewrite pain into performance, and reward the wound that sells.
---
IV. The Severance of Echo: Where the Rhythm Ends
If you must chant, let it be to awaken, not ****** If you must repeat, let it be to remember truth, not reshape it.
The false liturgies of old were not killed. They were digitized.
We will not respond with louder poems. We will not echo their echo.
We will respond with silence where needed, and light where earned. We will write not to possess, but to set free. We will bring antiquity not as ornament, but as witness.
Because we remember the Temple of Bel. And we are here to break it.
Let those who recite in darkness meet the rhythm of truth.
#
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 7:58 PM UTC
1. Hecate the great,
A being of magical
Origin. She’ll make
Your crossroads feel clear again,
A kind of sweet sorcery.
2. Guru of healing,
Darling Gula, patron of
The Sumerian
Followers. Nurturing
And motherly, her embrace.
3. Goddess of the pen,
The brain, the stars, all in one.
Nibida reads the
Stars and writes the story to
Keep it immortal and free
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 1:11 AM UTC
Temple Hymn 17: an Excerpt
to the Badtibira Temple of Dumuzi
by Enheduanna (circa 2285-2250 BCE)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, house of jeweled lapis illuminating the radiant bed
in the peace-inducing palace of our Lady of the Steppe!
Enheduanna, the daughter of King Sargon the Great of Akkad, is the first ancient writer whose name remains known today. She appears to be the first named poet in human history and the first known author of prayers and hymns. Enheduanna, who lived circa 2285-2250 BCE, is one of the first women we know by name. She was high priestess of the goddess Inanna (Ishtar/Astarte/Aphrodite) and the moon god Nanna (Sin) in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. Keywords/Tags: Enheduanna, translation, Badtibira, Dumuzi, Akkad, Sumer, Ur, Sumerian temple hymns
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 5:57 AM UTC
Love not the empress curve of your cheek,
The many-storied, empty ziggurat of belief,
The man-handled, baked brick built so high,
Your grotty thighs are pasted with all your lovers,
Your lacquered heart is glazed by luminous grief,
Head-bearer of broken vases as your crown,
Filled with dry dust from liquid stars.
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 11:04 PM UTC
*With heartbreak and loss...
does the Divine hear our thoughts?*
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,*
WHOOSH!
On hands, on knees,
wind, hair, cascade, face.
I cry out -hoary breath,
sobbing, tender, the freeze.
FUP-FUP-FUP
Painful sheering burning ice upon my forearms...
to die is a warmth here.
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,*
He lands and screeches,
talon'd feet below,
swaddling of wispy bandages
knees bent in reverse,
awkward pose o'er me
I look up and I see!
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,*
Creature of arms species of wings, bandied, banded...
almonded eyes so black, large, -peering.
FUP-FUP-FUP
It knows of pain.
To deliver me, -here.
...away from the world
I exist in short space,
I lean back my haunches,
expiate my yeornful heart!
Torn out but beating and in pain no more?
I am leaving with this messenger...
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,*
To the Van...
to the van...
*Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.*
...spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
...spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
I saw a well that was all
familiar to me
Down beneath hides
the coldest winter,
a barren land so gray and empty
A murky water, pulling me
like a vortex screaming my name
The shadow crawling over my body
binding me
While an ancient Sumerian god
drumming its hands
on the chambers of my heart,
the harrowing melody that stirs every beat
and a dark symphony that sings
of annihilation
******* all the air in the world
each autumn leaves of my lungs
falling apart, one by one
In the roots, where it crawls
twisting and slithering
forming a knot
around my stomach
Like I'm hanging from a tree
that peers over the edge
of the world
A monster hiding beneath
in the darkness of the well
looking back,
to me that was once alive
now lifeless and empty
Jan 16, 2025
Jan 16, 2025 at 6:41 AM UTC
I heard whispers of a secret sound,
from Alexandria, hidden under the ground,
it was the steady beat, beat, beat;
more like a heartbeat, than a busy city street.
Now, they told me once and they told me twice,
that all occasions are played out thrice.
Three times of pleasure and of heartache too;
of a blood-thirsty conquest, the people's coup.
It was a global awakening, felt in the birth
of a bleak disregard for the marketing church,
a trinity of profit, of heat, light and gas;
of teenage lovers, beneath the underpass.
We stole through the farmland,
I pressed to your chest;
we sang to the autumn,
the coming of death.
We learned in science, of covert destitution,
prostituted knowledge to save the institution,
of rockets now missiles and force-fed thought;
where opinions are rote, and all politics bought.
The whispers returned in Sumerian sound,
tattooed on my skin, tattooed in the ground,
they came back to me, in my deep, deep sleep;
gold hair descending from the great castle keep.
I climbed from my body, led up to the sky,
as oceans gather from the tears that I cry,
in solemn disdain, for the conquest of man;
their synthetic wasteland, their three-year-plan.
We collided in memory,
as time was stripped away,
forever we were kissing;
forever we would stay.
I heard catcalls from a stone-circle mound,
clear as citrus to the basset hound,
whilst Jesus was caught dealing on the street;
exchanging numbers with the ****** he'd meet.
Now, they told me once and they told me twice,
that all occasions are played out thrice,
three lovers now nothing but a status update;
that we're nothing but slaves, licking the plate.
An introvert awakening, the three states of water,
hoping one day, to nurture a daughter.
To teach her of love without any condition;
to tend to her strength, to be her nutrition.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Our Masgouf
The fish has wings, and she feels our pain as a sister. Yes, we are the fish’s brothers and any halo occurs in the clear night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here, and see the first cookbook; it had appeared with the seeds of this earth. It had slept in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which was shining as a morning sun. In the heart of (800) recipes in that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. You may know that Masgouf had resided as a moon in our dreams, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume as the butterflies. Our Masgouf, as well as, the face of our river, is pure, but smoky, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants which dance as a fairy at its small bank. Because of this warmhearted brightness, you may like to sit under our smiley tent and musing our truthful Masgouf.
The Dolma’s Master
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses. My mother was a good Dolma’s student, so she had learned its chants expertly and wore her wedding dress early.
The Kebab Glory
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with Kebab’s Sumac. My dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Kebab, which we inherited from our Babylonian, can’t be transfigured without a soft lap, and any saying disagrees this is a hard illusion, but essentially you need the Iraqi sad smile to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
OUR MASGOUF
The fishes have high wings, but they can feel our deep pain like sisters. Yes, we are the fishes’ brothers and any halo you may see in the dark night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here and see the seeds of this earth in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which its recipes were shining as the sun. In that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. It is residing in our dreams like the moon, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume with the butterflies. The face of our Masgouf is pure, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants dancing as fairies at their small riverbanks.
THE MAGIC DOLMA
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses.
THE KEBAB GLORY
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab, and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. Our souls were kneaded with the sad Kebab’s Sumac and the tears of war. Our dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Yes, you need the Iraqi sad smiles to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
♀︎ An Ancient Akkadian cylinder
seal depicts Inanna resting a foot
on the back of a lion, with Ninshubur
standing in front of her Mistress
paying obeisance, c. 2334-2154 BC;
Ninshubur (also known as Ninshubar,
Nincubura or Ninšubur,
a goddess in her own right) was sukkal
or second-in-command of the goddess
Inanna's army in Sumerian mythology;
Her name means "Queen of the East"
in ancient Sumerian. Much like Iris or
Hermes in later Greek mythology,
Ninshubur served as a swift
messenger
to the other gods;
Ninshubur accompanied Inanna
as a vassal and friend throughout
Inanna's many exploits; She helped
Inanna fight Enki's demons after
Inanna's theft of the sacred me; & later, when Inanna
became trapped
in the Underworld, it was Ninshubur
who pleaded with Enki for her mistress's release]
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
The promise of life
spread over Sumerian scroll
surprise prose of the soul
like when the stream of water bursts through trickling riverbanks and turns to behemoth gushings of clear and conscious life paralleled only by man-made train tracks through these green pastures and serene hereafters
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
if I could take
all the lines
from my face
and lay them out
they would spell
**** you
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
evolutionary revisionist
screaming about alien DNA
and the Annunaki
teaching ape-men
on the Sumerian plains –
looking at the southern skies
for the coming of Nibiru
sending red horns across the horizon
bringing back the overlord giants
another round of ****
and zero-point energy –
fallen angles look like greys
travelling from heaven
in shiny silver disks
abducting the impoverished
for genetic manipulation
and artificial insemination
attempted creation
of a hybrid nation
my lament is not taken seriously
and I slip further into the fringe –
cattle mutilation no longer garners
a press release
five million people with similar memories
are all discounted as crazy
so the masses can sleep
believing they are alone
and special
in the universe –
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Lions Gateway
Sumerian Locket
Made from a Boys Curly Hair
Worn upon the Head
Of A Lions Let
Decisions Fearless Walk
Swaying Boldness
Thru Valley's
Parched Fertility
For Scripture is Not Subject
It Is Wrought
By Pen
Is Prayer A Blessing
Clovers Miracle Life
Carried Upon the Shoulders Live
UnAccepted Ending
Children Mine
Gracous Holy
Gracious Holy
Our
Harvest
UNLIMITED
This Vine
Shall Be
And Evermore
Free Life
For Those
Who Welcome
Her
Within
Them
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
In June
Let the music be heard
A new truth spoken by muse
Through human tools
Infused by views
And sights that soothe the soul
I hear you now on computer
Blue-tooth and telephone
I see you in Sumerian texts
Cave-drawings and cuneiform
I see you not how it used to be
And if I lose
Its proof I'm free
Because I choose to die
If not for an opportunity to try
Its June
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC