Doe Not Then Inscribe
Pean echoed on Hills, dithyrambic,
for duels on stone red wet ground are paired,
Art thy sword and panoply metred Iambic?
Verses reflect no loves in souls, poetic,
Doe not then inscribe your sentiments aired,
Pean echoed on Hills, dithyrambic.
We shall attend a time corybantic
the duel unchains enslaved wrath where'd
Art thy sword and panoply metred Iambic?
Pentameter exports par'syllabic,
Capital thy right is, thorny and flared,
Pean echoed on Hills, dithyrambic.
Sponde of tears onward a wind frantic,
Happiness and sadness deceived or spared,
Art thy sword and panoply metred Iambic?
Flags tear in gusts of winter gigantic,
an emblem bronzed toasting my mirth, declared,
Pean echoed on Hills, dithyrambic;
Art thy sword and panoply metred Iambic?
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Related quotes
I would talk in iambic pentameter if it were easier.
quote by Howard Nemerov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aemilianus Monae, Alexandrian, 628 - 655 A.D.
With words, with countenance, and with manners
I shall build an excellent panoply;
and in this way I shall face evil men
without having any fear or weakness.
They will want to harm me. But of those
who approach me none will know
where my wounds are, my vulnerable parts,
under all the lies that will cover me. --
Boastful words of Aemilianus Monae.
Did he ever build this panoply?
In any case, he did not wear it much.
He died in Sicily, at the age of twenty-seven.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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~ Namaskar ~ Hello ~ Bonjour ~
~ Namaskar ~ Hello ~ Bonjour ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
12 September 2010
[Today is my Birth Day. I congratulate/acknowledge all supports, loves and blessings in my poetic sojourn by the Hon’ble Memembers of PH ~ niv]
~ Namaskar ~ Hello ~ Bonjour ~
Poetic noetic fizzy dish
Of my BD whisk wish
Its guided message
Assuring ace assuage.
Not an unguided pean
Me to be own n’ dawn
Yeah…may seem strange
Explore my wee range
Why not psychically prepare
Me to primp n’ pamper
Yummy yummy innumery
Creamy woozy quaggy canary
Jockey jaunt me with Ferrari
I’m wee Nivy Nivy Dearie!
~ Namaskar ~ Hello ~ Bonjour ~
===
Glossary with humility I’m giving what I tried to express:
[1] Namaskar ~ Salutation in Bengali
[2] Bonjour [Fr] ~ Good day good morning
[3] BD ~ Birth Day
[4] Whisk ~ Nimbly
[5] Pean ~ Hymn of thank [ancient Greece]
[6] Dawn [Verb] ~ Enter one's emotions
[7] Canary ~ Historical sweet wine [Canary Island]
~~
Copyright reserved by author
poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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Sword Of Mine
The Sword that I carry
Though made not of iron or steel,
It is a mighty sword
That I proudly do so wield.
Though it wont break the skin
Or combat the weapons of a foe
But this is a mighty sword of mine
More precious than silver or gold.
This sword that I carry
I proudly display it in my hand,
For I know this sword of mine
Is greater, than any other mans.
It comforts me when I am tired
It will warm me when I am cold
It will lie down beside of me
To protect, and strengthen my soul.
The sword that I hold
Is tattered, and so very worn
It has been a friend along side of me,
In the sunshine and many storms.
It has shown me a path to follow
And has lit the road that I walk,
And those nights when I was alone and scared
Then to me, I could hear it talk.
The sword that I wield
Though may be different, in shape or size,
But it is the same sword
Which for years has cushioned the souls cry.
It has been here since the dawn of time
And will be here when the great walls fall,
And then when all men of war and hate reflect,
My sword, will be the mightiest sword of all.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Neater meter for Mr Earley
Neater meter?
I have to write a sonnet in free verse.
I must stick to Iambic pentameter.
A meter that I do not often use.
Pentameter is my more usual style.
A Sapphic meter would be so much worse.
I am more comfortable with the latter.
I find that some odd metres can confuse
a simple rhymester like me for a while.
I’m quite convinced that pentameter
makes my presentations appear neater.
It may be that you think I am obtuse
and that my simple verses make you smile.
You are entitled to your point of view.
Naturally I won’t agree with you!
11-Apr-08
Free verse sonnet
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Beat the plowshare
Pound the drum
Of war to come
Rhythm on steel
Red from the forge
Forms the sword
To carry to war
The sledge makes beat
On thinning edge
As it pounds
pounds
pounds
pounds
It sounds the drum
Of war to come
Soon it will be echoed
By marching men
cries of battle
Sounds of war
The sword will lead
Before the flag
Followed by the sound
Of drums
Pounding
Pounding
To war
Today, I beat my plowshare
And I listen to the drum
poem by James Timothy Jarrett
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The Other Half
Over the hills, lies a new beginning
Over the hills
Over the hills, there is a way I know it
Over the hills
You can't bring all the gloom
Your heart is frayed and so empty
You glorify the future
Living in a different world than me
The journey ends in death
You are giving up so easily
You are the other half of me
Over the hills [4x]
We are drifting apart
Chilled to the marrow, cause you don't want to go
Cause we've got a different wish at heart
The amulet guides us to the other side
When I go down it's you who'll bleed
I'm not scared to die, as long as I'm with you
You are the other half of me
Over the hills, lies a new beginning
Over the hills
Over the hills, there's a way I know it
Over the hills
song performed by by Within Temptation
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sophia The Psychic She Lived Down The Road
Sophia the psychic she lived down the road
She knew the roads she knew the souls
An Antipythia of the broken heart
Wept ‘don’t know thyself ‘tis too deep’
Know thy paths not entangled they are
‘spread like lilies’ not needing the truth
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
Sophia the psychic she met me one day
I looked into her eyes compassion I smiled
Yes, she started, and she could not stop
Against my smile her intermittent sobs
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
‘Tis passion Sophia I asked
Why are you telling me what I already know
Obsession, Sophia, leave the past in peace
Take some rest and do not worry
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
I am centuries old as well but still too young for your tears
And don’t ask for my coins for I have none
All the pearls of wisdom you’ve already gained
There’s no way for you to be repaid
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Hills of Mahabaleshwar (Pune-Mumbai-India)
Passing through a long stretch of woodlands
and fields above the hills,
we saw a terrain with knolls in circles,
where the mountain-rat Shivaji held sway,
with a drawn sword when the Moghuls ruled India.
When we were going up, the shining bunds of lights
one above the other on the slopes of the hills,
made our jaunt fascinating!
A fine morning drizzle fell to make the hills smile
and the spreading mists tried in vain to veil the hills
from our ravening looks.
The mists were wreathing upwards
while our eyes were scaling down the slopes.
And it was a vertiginous dropp to the vales below!
Sparkling sparks of teachers, my friends were,
taking neck or nothing risks
and travelling in routes unheard of
to retreat into hills and forests,
not as jungle bandits with prize catches
or as bogus ascetics with all delicacies
but with passions unbridled
to get wet in the breeze of the hills
and be shrouded in the all pervading mists.
------------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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The Other Half (of Me)
Over the hills lies a new beginning
Over the hills
Over the hills, there is a way, I know it
Over the hills
You cant bring all the gloom
Your heart is frayed and so empty
You glorify the future
Living in a different world than me
The yourney ends in death
You are giving up so easily
You are the other half of me
Over The Hills (x4)
We are drifting apart
Chilled to the marrow
cause you dont want to go
cause weve got a different wish at heart
The amulet guides us to the other side
When I go down, its you wholl bleed
Im not scared to die as long as Im with you
You are the other half of me
Over the hills lies a new beginning
Over the hills
Over the hills, there is a way, I know it
Over the hills
song performed by by Within Temptation
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lola She Liked A Look Through The Window
Into a colour lit night
Her dresses white hands transparent
A through thought penetrate glitter of the glass
Her colours were made of the white washed walls
She echoed a raven ebony tied hair
She echoed a raven a raven and a woman
Both fragile thin bird like thinning lines
Of a double sword beak singing the mask of light
Did she see the masts the sails or the ships
Did she spill the white cloud dress down her hips
Did she seal the colours long dead fading on her lips
Or simply tied everything within the clasp of her hands
Resting nestling in the calm white lap
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Over The Hills
The old hound wags his shaggy tail,
And I know what he would say:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills, and away.
There's nought for us here save to count the clock,
And hang the head all day:
But over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
Here among men we're like the deer
That yonder is our prey:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The hypocrite is master here,
But he's the cock of clay:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The women, they shall sigh and smile,
And madden whom they may:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
Let silly lads in couples run
To pleasure, a wicked fay:
'Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The torrent glints under the rowan red,
And shakes the bracken spray:
What joy on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed
Is purple, and orange, and gray:
Away, and away, we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
poem by George Meredith
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Nurse's Song (Innocence)
When voices of children are heard on the green
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast
And everything else is still
Then come home my children the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise
Come come leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies
No no let us play, for it is yet day
And we cannot go to sleep
Besides in the sky, the little birds fly
And the hills are all covered with sheep
Well well go & play till the light fades away
And then go home to bed
The little ones leaped & shouted & laugh'd
And all the hills echoed
poem by William Blake
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In The Hills Of Shiloh
Have you seen Amanda Blaine in the hills of Shiloh
Wandering through the morning rain through the hills of Shiloh
Have you seen her at her door, listening for the cannon's roar
And a man who went to war from the hills of Shiloh
Have you heard her mournful cries in the hills of Shiloh
Have you seen her haunted eyes in the hills of Shiloh
Have you seen her running down searching through the sleeping
town
In her yellowed wedding gown in the hills of Shiloh
Have you seen her standing there in the hills of Shiloh
Wind a blowing through her hair in the hills of Shiloh
Listening for the sound of guns listening for the rolling drums
And a man who never comes to the hills of Shiloh
Have you heard Amanda sing in the hills of Shiloh
Whispering to her wedding ring in the hills of Shiloh
Hear her humming soft and low, poor Amanda doesn't know
'Twas ended forty years ago in the hills of Shiloh
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Nurse's Song
When the voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.
‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Come, come leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies.’
‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all cover'd with sheep.’
‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed.’
The little ones leapèd, and shoutèd, and laugh'd
And all the hills echoèd.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fourteen Verses
My passion is to write modern sonnets
Yes indeed modern not traditional.
Iambic pentameter I regret
Is too restrictive and conditional.
I had observed that many years ago.
Expression of thought is more important
Than any well-placed iamb, apropos.
These little songs* are not songs at all; shan’t
Pretend when they're not. Mine are messages
That I compose within fourteen verses:
Some assurances, other presages.
They are my work for better or for worse.
If I fail to convey in fourteen lines
I'd nothing to say and wasted your time.
* Sonnet means little song.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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In Pursuit Of The Sonnet
I cannot write a sonnet; it's too hard
To put such barriers around my brain
And thus I find my efforts often marred
Although I rephrase again and again
I cannot write a sonnet though I try
Through day and night, through winter, into spring
And even though I have no reason why
A ten-syllable line my thoughts won't bring.
But now I wonder just what is so great
About this 'iambic pentameter'?
And am almost resigned that it's my fate
That from the sonnet form I should defer
Yet, having spent so long in search of one
T'would be a shame if it should not be done
poem by SarahJane Platt
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Over the hills and far away
Over the hills and far away,
A little boy steals from his morning play
And under the blossoming apple-tree
He lies and he dreams of the things to be:
Of battles fought and of victories won,
Of wrongs o'erthrown and of great deeds done -
Of the valor that he shall prove some day,
Over the hills and far away -
Over the hills, and far away!
Over the hills and far away
It's, oh, for the toil the livelong day!
But it mattereth not to the soul aflame
With a love for riches and power and fame!
On, 0 man! while the sun is high -
On to the certain joys that lie
Yonder where blazeth the noon of day,
Over the hills and far away -
Over the hills, and far away!
Over the hills and far away,
An old man lingers at close of day;
Now that his journey is almost done,
His battles fought and his victories won -
The old-time honesty and truth,
The trustfulness and the friends of youth,
Home and mother-where are they?
Over the hills and far away -
Over the years, and far away!
poem by Eugene Field
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Toboggan
1 Down from the hills and over the snow
2 Swift as a meteor's flash we go,
3 Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!
4 Down from the hills with our senses lost,
5 Jealous of cheeks that are kissed by the frost,
6 Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!
7 With snow piled high on housetop and hill,
8 O'er frozen rivulet, river, and rill,
9 Clad in her jacket of sealskin and fur,
10 Down from the hills I'm sliding with her,
11 Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!
12 Down from the hills, what an awful speed!
13 As if on the back of a frightened steed,
14 Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!
15 Down from the hills at the rise of the moon,
16 Merrily singing the toboggan tune,
17 "Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!"
18 Down from the hills like an arrow we fly,
19 Or a comet that whizzes along through the sky;
20 Down from the hills! Oh, isn't it grand!
21 Clasping your best winter girl by the hand,
22 Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!
23 Down from the hills and both growing old,
24 Down from the hills we are nearing the fold:
25 Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!
26 Close to the homestead we hear the ring
27 Of children's voices that cheerily sing,
28 "Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!"
29 Down from the hills and we hear the chime
30 Of bells that are ringing out Old Father Time;
31 Down from the hills we are riding away,
32 Nearing the life with its endless day;
33 Toboggan! Toboggan! Toboggan!
poem by Benjamin Franklin King
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In The British Museum
'What do you see in that time-touched stone,
When nothing is there
But ashen blankness, although you give it
A rigid stare?
'You look not quite as if you saw,
But as if you heard,
Parting your lips, and treading softly
As mouse or bird.
'It is only the base of a pillar, they'll tell you,
That came to us
From a far old hill men used to name
Areopagus.'
- 'I know no art, and I only view
A stone from a wall,
But I am thinking that stone has echoed
The voice of Paul,
'Paul as he stood and preached beside it
Facing the crowd,
A small gaunt figure with wasted features,
Calling out loud
'Words that in all their intimate accents
Pattered upon
That marble front, and were far reflected,
And then were gone.
'I'm a labouring man, and know but little,
Or nothing at all;
But I can't help thinking that stone once echoed
The voice of Paul.'
poem by Thomas Hardy
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