Best Welles Poems
Orson Welles did an adaptation of "The War of the Worlds"
book written by HG Wells, on Halloween Night Oct 30,1938.
It aired over the Columbia Broadcasting System radio network.
Directed by actor and future filmmaker Orson Wells. It was an
American radio drama through the Mercury Theatre on the Air.
It was a news bulletin for the first 40 minutes suggesting an
Alien Invasion, by Martians. Causing real mass panic through
out some areas that people were listening. The listening audience
thought it was real, when it was not.
________________________________________________________________________
A farmer and his wife listening to the Broadcast.
"All my God Phyllis grab the shotgun
and make sure it's loaded!"
"The Martians, the Star People, their
craft has crashed and exploded!!"
"I think I saw one out there in the
dark!!"
"For heaven sake Carl, lets hurry
and get in the car!!"
"I'm not going out there forget the
car!!"
"They have Ray guns hon, we
wouldn't make it so far!!"
"I'm so scared Carl you think they
will hurt us!?"
"I don't know Phyllis, it's in God
we trust."
" I heard noises coming from the
roof!"
"Oh my God Carl, what are you
going to do?"
"If I see one I am shooting to kill!"
"Stay here Phyllis and sit still!"
"Your going to leave me here by
myself, no Carl stay inside!?"
"I have to go and shoot that alien
Phyllis, right between the eyes!!"
Carl ran out the door and much to
to his surprise.
Up on the roof there was a Raccoon,
with big eyes.
Carl now realized what he had
seen.
Embarrassed to tell his wife Phyllis,
he smiles, still scared, but with a grin.
Just then over the Radio Phyllis
hears.
"This is not a real event, were sorry for
bringing so much fear."
Phyllis grabbed the radio after
hearing the news.
In front of Carl she smashed the
Radio in two!!!!
_____________________________________________________________________
Through out the Country
people were terrorized.
Those Star People had
made an impact!
“We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we
create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.” -- Orson Welles
she dwelt in a seaside stone cottage
winds, words and world outside repelled
lonely single rose amidst a garden of weeds
from without the windows she did not peer
recalling not how her life became this way
fantasizing family and friends
she spoke aloud as if they could hear
words blown as puffs from the chimney top
orphaned by all, she remained
encumbered by solitude, lifted by illusion
*Entry for Brian’s two to fourteen contest
October 5, 2011
Pronounced side effect upon my dreams...
courtesy Fluoxetine hydrochloride
Fluoxetine Hcl (C17H18F3NO·HCl)
known as Selective Serotonin
Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI),
especially prescribed to treat
depression, panic disorder,
and obsessive-compulsive disorder
the above symptoms
profoundly experienced by yours truly
said prescription medication
seriously impacts sleep (mine).
Debilitating panic attacks
wrought (particularly years gone by)
physiological displeasures chiefly constituting
vertigo, racing heart, nausea,
excessive perspiration, adrenaline
coursing thru body,
whereby Prozac (brand name regarding
aforementioned synthesized chemical)
ameliorated unbearable, unmanageable, untenable...
earth-shaking, devastating,
and crushing manifestations
disabling, exhausting, jackknifing... functionality
hijacking life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
Essentially yours truly experiences
dilemma analogous to sleep deprivation,
cuz ofttimes upon arising,
I feel utterly tuckered out, exhausted, bushed...
thus zapped body, mind and spirit
ill suited to physical,
mental or spiritual endeavor
subsequently lovely bones (mine)
(pine to join grateful dead)
rather than feebly kickstart
lame effort to write, read or meditate.
Thus respecting Sir Isaac
Newton's first law of motion
a (human) body at rest
inertia keeps said entity at rest.
Interestingly enough as
daylight doth wax and wane
casting dark shadows upon urbane
countenance buzzfeeding hidden reservoir
exerting estimable energy
decreasing arduous strain
therefore purposefulness,
I seek renewable resource to imbue
garden variety generic
doubting thomas and ordain
him (i.e. me) with spontaneous
magnificent grandiloquent enlightenment
ala Orson Welles Citizen Kane
laughable comparison linkedin
with story extraordinaire quite insane
September 4th, 2020 insight one can gain
perchance even coaxing passable poem
from deep within Matthew Scott Harris' brain.
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXXVI
IF you pull a long-famished face
Chances are you'd pull derisive looks your way
Some might relent Others spite your face
For not pulling your weight in every way
If you pull a long symbolic face
Your words no meaning profound convey
Mallarmé's ill-armed ideas make poems fall on face
Try E = mc2 : Poem = idea + words2 to force poiea
If you pull a long straight face
The contradiction might show through the gap in the veil
Sure as Rita Hayworth " put the blame " on Orson Welles
If you're not sure of the signs in poems you use in braille
If you yet pull a long-forsaken face
Stymied by photons neutrinos criss-crossed by Cosmic Ray
Stop wondering what happened to meaning words efface
Just listen to rhythmic rhymes in the musical phrase at play
So if you must pull that long-mutated face
With time won't ideas coalesce words into Shakespearean play
At will stream out of computer softwares at mind-boggling pace
Leave neither poet nor poetaster critic nor customer with pay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, February 25, 2019
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : XXXIX
For Aurélien BARRAU, the consummate millenial teacher
IF you pull a long perplexed face
At the way this World has come to stay
Bad Guys always running the human race
Good Guys have no recourse but to pray
If you pull a long victimized face
Hoping somehow the Meek will win out some day
That all it takes is to lose meantime some face
Now and then to those who make you unwilling pay
If you pull a long anxious face
Fretting every morn the issue of the day
Which Frost road to take to avoid the pitfall place
Bad Guys will revel to see you fritter energy away
If you pull a long downcast face
At the way Justice fails to pave the way
For Truth to triumph while mediocre mettle prevails
Does not Yang need the Yin to keep both at bay
If you must then pull all kinds of face
At, say, Pullitzers Bookers Goncourts all mainstay Nobels pariah
Will the whored beggar Welles or the squealing Kazans they replace
Be the Dantes erecting on quicksand grounds the Divina Comedia
© T. Wignesan - Paris, March 16, 2019
We don’t have wishes from the stars
The skyscrapers are hidden our sun.
Mornings are anesthetic by horns,
Vanishing the morning contemplation
I want be leaving in a UFO from here.
Searching other worlds where life exists,
Such intelligent way, and friendly,
Just to live in all morning days.
I want to leave, and not run away from here,
A UFO, but not from the X file,
But made for a phenomenon of the sky.
Goodbye, fiction and reality in solitude.
Happy will be between the spheres of light,
Forgotten all the theories of creation.
Just feel the life as a gift to the eye.
Dreaming, don’t think in life or death.
I would live without the weather, but only,
The gentle breeze to lift the soul in a sailboat,
Surfing the skies of morning stars.
Living alone. No missing, listening to the heart.
Finding a home where the life is not just water.
The empty sky filled by the look, without ink.
An universe from illusion, and an UFO from metal,
Crossing sky to the infinity, to never came back home.
I will miss, resting my thoughts by the wind,
Under the leaves of an oak on season of summers.
Bringing the distant mountains close for my eyes.
Harbors; the memories will tell stories of Plato.
The eyes of the peoples will imagine when the UFO pass,
Am I an alien from Spielberg or Orson Welles?
I will arrive in a street of Spain, smelling the fragrance of vines.
Missing all the flavors and loves left behind.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.
Her skin's mahogany, not regal white.
She slaps on paints and fillers by the ton,
and has the dress sense of an anchorite.
Fastidious? Only in her brand of beer.
Brash burger joints are where she likes to dine.
She'd rather look at Fonzie than Vermeer:
thinks maybe vampires dwell in Wittgenstein.
It's Oprah Winfrey over Orson Welles,
and Justin Bieber beats Thelonius Monk:
she'll read "Hello!" before the Book of Kells,
and Chateau Margaux's just for getting drunk.
A fiery, funny, perky popinjay?
I wouldn't have her any other way.
Ominous Foreboding Augurs...
Innocuously incubated kindled
imperceptible dire strait
restlessness like tinder
with pinterest Deutsche agitate
barreling like a freight
train running so much
faster than an eight
track uber twittering,
rumbling, quickening and inculcate
dissension among dissolute
rabble rousers, who
do obediently initiate
rank and file will not abate,
boot re:reed out (bus) soon,
thence coalesces into ablegate
insidious encroachments
no longer patiently await...
ideal conditions to hatch
schism within parched
soil perfect for hate
mongers of democracy
breeds anarchy to facilitate
chaos, which quickly spreads
like kudzu, or wildfire Arson
Welles immediately forcing leader
of free world to abnegate,
(heard to trumpet "FORGET
THE WALL" mate),
(despite being caught in his
pink frilly underwear), to late
for Mar a Lago escape, where
formerly great wealth did
pool lightly coagulate
elite class heard faint stir of echoes,
then earsplitting clangorous louder
than an ICBM din (er bell)
rent asunder forcing
freedom of "FAKE
MEDIA" to abdicate
all the while pointing beringed
index finger to accentuate
his Taj Mahal ululation
interspersed veni, vedi,
veci stopping for spate
to coif (died in the will)
hirsute and aerate
said wind swept hairdo
pausing every now and again to snap
selfie portraits, plus
instagram loved ones to alleviate
that pompous, outsize,
and humongous ego fast deflate
ting into a shriveled up POTUS
float hissing boilerplate
hot airy premature ejaculations,
he would not capitulate
(sooner be rocketed
to Pyongyang and cell bate
good times with Kim
Jong-un to emasculate!
I now absolve myself
that aforementioned jest,
a tongue in cheek diatribe belies
my means to predict any forecast,
yet if any resemblance
of chance events
materializes between
my pablum childishness at best
there could arise fruitful market
for kitsch sheen collectors items
high as Mount Everest!
So disgusted with poetry I read in top magazines. Here then is some silliness I might submit to "The New Yorker."
Averted gaze upon Mars' shifting poles
now roiling in the teapot,
their anger lifted high beneath
rigid sprocket's
essence.
But why, an angry pupil dilated,
whose measurement again falls short
of dresser drawers where it might end?
Is this the object of my search?
The mirror?
Rising, falling, shelves laid bare,
yet grass was not announced
when BBC ended florid service,
so Africa had little choice
and thus could only merit.
The earth begins to wheeze,
but Orson Welles is dead.
Form:
this is my own experience it happened to me.
There is an eye similar to the Alan Parsons project on my door,
Also when I attend group the Matre on the door template read Parsons
I'm haunted almost every night toward a demonic entitity that shakes my bed
it will pick my body up and move me toward parts of my room
Based on the life and work of the great author and poet, Edgar Allan Poe.
The later re-issue on CD (in 1987) was re-mixed from the original master tapes enhancing some of the tracks and including the Orson Welles narration, recorded for the original launch of the album in 1976.
From listening to the songs on the Alan Parson's project I felt its awareness
Specifically, "The Eye Of The Sky" it got me thinking about an outer body experience.
Maybe it's just me but that's just how I feel about the project.
Orson Welles and company put on a show
which was broadcast in 1939 over CBS radio.
It was based on a book written years before
by H. G. Wells whom many readers would adore.
Martian invaders landed in Grover's Mill, New Jersey,
and marched their way northward into New York City.
Many listeners considered this production terrific.
The sounds of an invasion appeared so realistic.
Unfortunately, the broadcast started some panicking.
So many people thought this was the real thing.
Welles had to announce he was downplaying any fear.
"Don't worry people, the Martians are not really here".
Based on the 1939 CBS Radio broadcast of "The War of the Worlds"
On one of those old black-and-whites
with Orson "Spendthrift" Welles on board,
and many memos lying ignored,
the studio's money men took fright.
They brought in Stephen "hard man" Fier
to get the budget back in line.
If Orson begged a ball of twine,
he found his invoice scrutineered.
There's no incentive quite like hate.
One night, when craftsmen downed their tools
And wraps were safely wrapped in spools
the great director lingered late,
took brush and paint pot from the shelf
and daubed across one vast white wall,
"We've nothing here to fear at all -
except, that is, for Fier himself."
We never hear our own death knells.
Next day, the words were rubbed out, all.
Someone, in letters six feet tall,
had put, "All's Well that Ends Welles".
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.
Her skin's mahogany, not regal white.
She slaps on paints and fillers by the ton,
and has the dress sense of an anchorite.
Fastidious? Only in her brand of beer.
Brash burger joints are where she likes to dine.
She'd rather look at Fonzie than Vermeer:
thinks maybe vampires dwell in Wittgenstein.
It's Oprah Winfrey over Orson Welles,
and Justin Bieber beats Thelonius Monk:
she'll read "Hello!" before the Book of Kells,
and Chateau Margaux's just for getting drunk.
A fiery, funny, perky popinjay?
I wouldn't have her any other way.
quote:"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.
Orson Welles"
until then i bade goodbye
left family with wet eyes
new realm to study in USA
hopes were high in all our hearts
Until then time was fleeting
months passed fast becoming years
finally after long time
got warm hugs from family
finally I meet a girl
got married I had to leave
after long six long months wait
saw her happy face again
she went to see her parents
felt home sick living alone
there she died of heart attack
hoping to unite our souls
Maybe I'll go all Bukowski on you, turn your cheeks scarlet red.
A little Emily Dickerson, with a lot of talk about death and the dead.
How about some dr. Seuss, that will make you laugh till it hurts in your side.
Or few words from Orson Welles on the radio when two worlds collide.
Turn your heart to mush like Browning, Yeats and Shakespeare.
Opening your eyes like Robert Frost to the earth and nature he loved so dear.
Make myself a voice like Dylan Thomas for the literary scene.
Or Allen Ginsberg, William Blake and T.S. Eliot on the movie screen.
I can't be them cuz I got to be me, they set the bar.
So I have to break the chains by taking it a little too far.
Maybe you won't like it that I step out of their realm.
But I have to do it because, I want to be the next poet at the helm