NaPM April 5 2013

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. I know my poor organization and planning skills are now burdening you with the extra pressure.

Topic 5: Write a poem inspired by a historical figure.
Form : any
Line requirements: 10 lines or more

Questions?

(That swell old guy Lincoln really gets me thinkin')

[UnicornRainbowCake]

Terrible, but I missed yesterdays so have no excuse not to contribute today...

Florence Nightingale

Rows of beds on which they groan,
Legs in splint and stitches sewn
Cries out loud for something numbing -
The lady with the lamp is coming.

In the deep blue sky lit up with flares
And from the fields a thousand prayers
Away from war's incessant drumming -
The lady with the lamp is coming.

With a heart of gold in such dire times
She cares for all subject to crimes
When no-one else is quite so loving
The lady with the lamp is coming.

Though shells fall and men are running
When on drones the din of gunning
And all around are succumbing -
The lady with the lamp is coming.

[milo]

Einstein's Brain

Try as we might, we can’t find math
in cubed up chunks of brain.
I feel like a palmist –
Does that line spawn greatness?
sections, grey and thick
like mushrooms in a cloud
of formalin, slowly bob
in mason jars – oblivious.
We could pack them up, steal
them off in comfy sweaters,
hide them from the jaundiced
light. Or we can just reach out
and give those jars a shake.

milo

[Leanne]

Boudicca

and you strip me
bare my flesh to winter’s icy fingers
while your foul corruption lingers
filthy on my skin

and you whip me
flay my flesh with cords of foreign leather
while my people stand together
drinking of your sin

you have killed us
we were buried by your golden promise
yet the soil you’ve stolen from us
stirs between our bones

gods have willed us
seed our freedom from the blood you spilled here
tear down all you’ve tried to build here
burn your iron thrones

[NakedBear]

Bhagava

You spoke, and set the wisest god to rights.
And when in Death’s great power, it’s to you
his mind will turn: the one of keenest sight
who turned away from throne and power due
to him -- hard truths were known to be right views
for all who want that ease of mind sublime,
and hard to see, yet lasting just like time
itself. And though your bowl did blow as dust
before their Christ had wept, I must sing rhyme
to honour you, the Blessed in whom I trust.

I just want to make a couple quick comments. First, I know L8 is bumpy (oh. I changed it). Second, this poem has quite a bit of Buddhist jargon and allusion in it, which might make it a bit hard to grasp for non-buddhists. Sorry about that.

[cidermaid]

No editing done here...fresh out of the crate so lots of editing for later I'm sure.

Howard Carter
Into the valley of Kings you strode, into the valley of Kings.

No map or road to a known abode, just hollow, vacant chimes
of dried bones. And sleeping stars, that gazed unblinking eyes
from ancient lights that have long since seen decay;
watched and guided as you mapped and sampled, sketched
and crawled your chiselled and cloaked invading form. Raiding
lost memories, of wind erased and sand chased rulers, who sleep
enrobed in masked beauty, enthroned in plaster palaces, underground.
From your darkened couch can you see, millions of years of wonderful things?
Do they shine like those first stars that shone within the opening tomb?

(On his gravestone is written: "May your spirit live, May you spend millions of years, You who love Thebes, Sitting with your face to the north wind, Your eyes beholding happiness" and "O night, spread thy wings over me as the imperishable stars").

[milo]

Bhagava

You spoke, and set the wisest god to rights.
And when in Death’s great power, it’s to you
his mind will turn: the one of keenest sight
who turned away from throne and power due
to him -- hard truths were known to be right views
for all who want that ease of mind sublime,
and hard to see, yet lasting just like time
itself. And though your bowl did blow as dust
before their Christ had wept, I must sing rhyme
to honour you, the Blessed in whom I trust.

Thank god someone did the dizain.

[justcloudy]

an homage to the women pioneers of America's 19th century:

She was a woman of the trail
in a simple cotton dress,
with never swaying posture,
seeking better lives for children;
she traveled far for that.

At night she prepared supper,
daytime walked 'longside urging
dust blown wagons full of blankets,
three month’s dry food and little ones,
pulled by her weary cattle.

She kept her husband’s eyes straight forward
all through blizzards in the mountains
over rivers overflown;
they tramped together dreaming
of their life that was to come.

[Todd]

On the Day You Died

July 2, 1937
8:45 am

You were no longer the girl
who wore brown and walked alone.
You had traded muted earth
for postcard blue sky.
They will remember confetti
and convertibles, and you
streaking ever away,
a bouquet of silk flowers
lovely only from a distance,
thrown into the air,
never caught.

[rowens]

I believe she's still out there somewhere.

[billy]

Look at poor old Gandhi
very fuckin bandy
getting all his followers to drop their threads.
Still he wore his loin cloth
glad it wasn't full of moth;
telling every one of us, "stop and talk".
He made the British walk the line
and all the buggers looked like swine
a skinny sod out of his time,
Gandhi rocks.

[neena2504]

I am pretty late but here's one more for Mahatma Gandhi:

The mother was chained, her soul besieged,
her children robbed of everything dear.
A son she bore with dwindling hopes,
who would weaken the enemy's gear.

Truth was his sword, peace his armor,
he called upon his million brethren
to fight for rights, fight for freedom
and tread the path of peace and patience.

He taught the men a new warfare,
where the enemy's chest wasn't cleaved.
Where heads were not offered at the altar
of the mother's agony bereaved.

He shook the roots of tyranny's tree
without as much as a blow and blast.
He fought with the sword of truth until
freedom for the nation came at last.