Write a Poem on One of These Images The Society January 19, 2020 Beauty, Culture, Ekphrastic, Poetry, Poetry Contests 20 Comments The above photographs were taken and submitted by New York City poet Joe Tessitore. We invite readers to pick one of the images (or both) and write a poem. Post your poem in the comments section below. Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ classicalpoets.org with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.” Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 20 Responses Alex Andy Phuong January 19, 2020 “Being” People do what they do Some animals live in a zoo Some human beings forget That they are animals, too Unite humanity To create a better world Reply Joe Tessitore January 19, 2020 See ‘Em at the Museum Boys poised, side by side. Chests protruding, strength exuding. Flesh and bone and wrought in stone. I caught ‘em both on my I Phone. Jungle King The king waits for the bus. What is there to discuss? I think I’ll take a cab. Reply Monty January 30, 2020 Regarding the title of your above poem, Joe: you (and others) may or may not wish to know that the words “see ‘em” and “museum” were once used (ingeniously, I thought) as a rhyme by Joni Mitchell in her ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ (in which she tells us of a wooded area – real or imagined: it makes no difference – which’d been annihilated to make way for a new car-park). They took all the trees And put ‘em in a tree museum; And they charged the people A dollar-an’-a-half just to see ‘em! Don’t it always seem to go That ya don’t know what ya’v got Till it’s gone . . . They paved paradise, An’ put up a parking-lot. Reply Alan January 19, 2020 The Concrete Jungle The “concrete jungle” used to be a name That humans used to represent their place, But lions might not want to play our game. Not one to cage, not one to ever tame, So who will be the prey and who will chase? The “concrete jungle” used to be a name. If beasts returned to town, would they reclaim Their land and leave our homes without a trace? The lions might not want to play our game. If soon the trees and growing vines became Our masters, could we match their rapid pace? The “concrete jungle” used to be a name. What will become of all this burning flame? Will time run out or will we face disgrace? The lions might not want to play our game. One thing that we must here and now proclaim: We humans aren’t the only living race; The “concrete jungle” used to be a name, But lions might not want to play our game. Reply Joseph S. Salemi January 19, 2020 The great Assyrian Lamassu Right next to the cleaning crew. A lion on a New York Street Looking somewhat bushed by heat. Reply C.B. Anderson January 19, 2020 Joseph, I was tempted to respond to these prompts, but I don’t see how I could top your contributions. Reply Angel L Villanueva January 19, 2020 Seeking To Devour Do not ignore his frightful roar, But quickly strive to shut your door, For he will seek your faith to raze, To make you leave what you adore. A master hunter in his ways, With avid eyes he waits for preys. But keep your senses and perceive The traps he lays to end your days. Reply Gerald Weeks January 19, 2020 Standing tall, flesh or rock, erect, yet to expect the living or hewn as alter ego’s adjacent; they exhibit no inhibit as sentinels old and recent, so no time is told for the young and old, no rhyme or reason is nascent. Reply James A. Tweedie January 20, 2020 A famous sculptor hired me to pose. He’s good at what he does, so I have heard. I think he did a nice job with my nose, But really messed up big time on the beard. He gave me wings, a tail, and hooves as well. But even so, I think that you’ll agree That looking at it closely you can tell The finished statue looks a lot like me! ***** A mascot in the NFL Should be a happy guy. But if you’re from Detroit, oh well, You hang your head and cry. Reply David Watt January 20, 2020 Ahead of Their Time In Mesopotamia long ago Science was primitive, so they say, Lacking in splicing or G.M.O. But Lamassu’s features, by light of day, Lead me to ponder how they could grow Creatures as mixed as a stand-up buffet. Reply David Watt January 20, 2020 Oh For a Lion I wish I had a lion! I’d keep it in the street To frighten all the passers-by And hunt its own fresh meat. But when the landlord called, My lion would be there To catch him wholly unawares, And chase him down the stair. Reply Shari Jo LeKane January 20, 2020 The lion forever changes its mane, a sign of growth, strength, adaptability, lifelong learning, character and wisdom gained through a lifetime of experience. The lion knows how to pick its battles, what is worth defending for the pride, for the sake of survival, for the sake of love and loyalty, and ultimately, when to simply walk away. Reply Sally Cook January 20, 2020 . Tiger, tiger in my sight, .Striped, just like a honey bee In deepest black and golden yellow. One nasty sting, or awful bite Prove neither is a friendly fellow. Reply peter venable January 20, 2020 Martin Luther King came not as a sphinx But as a prophet, to break racial caste And to change the lies humanity thinks: “Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!” Reply Monty January 30, 2020 That’s an imaginative interpretation of the above photo . . as well as being a nice (and true) sentiment. Well interpreted. Reply Martin Elster January 20, 2020 The Lion of the City The lion of the city came to feed at night on sounds of trains and taxi honks, the stench of pee and trash. He had no need to hang with friends at the big zoo in the Bronx. The lion of the city, belly grumbling, padded on velvet paws along the street and, echoing his belly, trains were rumbling under the jungle fashioned of concrete. The lion of the island of Manhattan, lapping dirty water from the gutter, was gifted with a mane no other cat in the world enjoyed. Unconscious of the clutter of buses, cars, and feet, carrying laughter and grief and rage and multitudes of moods, this feline fugitive — what was he after? Wildebeest do not like these latitudes. Take pity on the lion of the city! Anon he was detected by the warden. The lion of the city was no kitty. Anon he was surrounded by a cordon. The people of the city watched the lion. They watched him crouch and heard him snarl and growl, smelled fear and thought, “He soon will be in Zion. This place is no place for big cats to prowl.” He heard the shot. His ears began to ring. He felt a stab of pain and then of sorrow for those who didn’t reckon him the king of beasts from Nuka Hiva to Kilimanjaro. The towers and lights and witnesses went dark. Dreaming of lionesses and gazelle, he lumbers round the grasslands of the park or lazes under beeches, bored to hell. The people watch the lion at the zoo. They’ve come from Brooklyn or Louisiana, exclaiming, “That’s a lion through and through,” imagining him roaming the savanna. Reply C.B. Anderson January 21, 2020 How sad it is when kings must stoop Before an urban gutter filled with poop. You see it in that noble feline’s eyes That pride’s the first entitlement that dies. Reply C.B. Anderson January 21, 2020 Corrected version: How sad it is when mighty kings must stoop Before an urban gutter filled with poop. You see it in that noble feline’s eyes, That pride’s the first entitlement that dies. Reply Amy January 21, 2020 God or Man? “God or Man?” he asks of me, “That truth of which I’m told. Tell me if you can,” says he, “Which path does lead to gold?” “Of riches internal or outwards?” I ask. “Of wealth overflowing or small?” “Of that which will flower this desert” says he, “Of that which births roads from a wall.” “Of roads with the eye or the soul?” I reply. “Whichever will guide me to grace,” he says as he turns to the tourist and sighs, “Of that which will find me a face.” “What makes an empire?” I ask of the man. “A leader” says he, with a grin. “But what makes one lasting and loved throughout time?” “Their heart” he replies as a win. “But how are you sure if it’s good or it’s ill?” “By my own” he replies with a bend. “But what if your own is defective, my dear? Just how will you know what will mend?” He thought upon these questions, then turned to me and said, “Why do we call bread broken, when through its tear, we’re fed? If plurals build on singulars, and truth does set men free to break the flesh’s fetters, might man’s letters hold the key?” “You ask a crucial question, which my return’s, “Because- how can we have a word which ‘is’, if something never ‘was’?” “To build upon a form,” says he, “A true form must exist, for stories, songs, and artist’s hands, to undertake this twist.” He motions to a statue, and to this I do reply, “Wise is he, whose soul can see the wings by which it flies.” “God or Man?” I ask of him who laughs and takes my hand. “Now I see the path ahead, and know on which I stand.” Reply AJK January 29, 2020 Some people say it’s a jungle out there, but I am a fearless fighter. No matter what gets in my way— I will break through. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.