Best Whirling Dervish Poems
"The Epiphany Rose"
All well and good,
the story unfolds;
the isolating madness
drew out the poets
in all the shunned
playing up and out
their origami
word games
something like
an epiphany rose
in them, the mad,
recalcitrant ones,
like nuns leaving
the genuflecting aisles
turning backs
before all their
starched alters
dripping idols
no longer really there,
they were somewhere
outside of It all;
the closed rose
turned around
to walk as one,
out the doors
into the blazing sun
finding some
strange reunion,
peeling off their
dark layers,
their novitiate
romance, their
too hot habits
disgarded
under indigo sky
of long dark nights,
reeling in the dream
like cotton thread
from a spinning wheel,
strange Ezekial creatures,
their nakedness
witnessed like
whirling dervish
calling in revolutions,
the expected extracted
arriving in the rolling clouds
another kingdom comes
swiftly opening
minds like roman candles
exploding like spiders
across the stars…
the timeless road
is now wide open
and well lit
(Ladylabyrinth / 2023)
"…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…”
(Keroac)
"Wherever the spirit would go, they would go, and the wheels would rise along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels. When the creatures moved, they also moved; when the creatures stood still, they also stood still; and when the creatures rose from the ground, the wheels rose along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels."
(Ezekial)
“Oh, honey my life and it's got me old fool gold
In the gold dust rush I can only genuflect
Oh, honey my life and it's got me old fool gold
In the gold dust rush
In the gold dust rush
Honey it is horrible
(In the gold dust rush)
There's locusts in there
She's got the old fool gold …"
(Cocteau Twins)
"The Meditative Rose"/Dali
The Mystique of Mars
Mars, fourth planet orbiting the sun,
was once a harbinger of hostility and aggression.
Aptly named after Roman god of war,
with sister Earth, it shares the same star.
Red, resplendent orb gracing the night sky,
like a whirling dervish, it artfully dances by.
Two moons captured in a strong gravitational grip,
Phobos and Deimos tag along on a wild cosmic trip.
From ancient times clouded in a veil of mystery,
we've tried to delve into its origins and history.
Is it home to an unfriendly alien race?
Or is it just a cold, devoid of life, kind of place?
While much about Mars is yet unknown,
perhaps, future generations will call it home.
The walker prevails without his brimmed hat,
skirting whirling dervish of hungry gnats
which seek to explore each orifice bare -
to sample the blood from here and from there,
as discerning vintner sups from each vat.
Tackling a gradient sure to task fat
the rambler struggles, with scowl for farm cat
which extended stretch and yawn smugly shares.
The walker prevails.
Somehow, surroundings seem terribly flat -
land less a life-force than foot-worn doormat.
Even the birds have no energy spare;
in the heat of this day, fox ignores hare.
Yet, like strong tail-ender last in to bat,
the walker prevails.
When you're alone in the dark,
look up into the night sky.
And marvel at creation's
incalculable vastness.
Heaven's celestial canvas
instills pure exaltation.
And you dare not breathe or talk
as rapture pools in your soul.
Twinkling stars confetti night
like precious sparkling jewels.
While quasars and pulsars spin
in a whirling dervish dance.
Planets hold gravity's hand,
synchronized in perfect stride.
And boundless balanced forces,
cause the galaxies to swirl.
A glimpse of divinity;
lies in cosmic harmony.
For who but God can conduct
symphonies: of light and time?
the azure flower, a lone sentinel,
stands tall amidst the scorched earth.
the tornado's wild caress,
a whirling dervish of destruction,
unleashes its fury upon the field,
devouring the vibrant blooms
with reckless abandon.
as the last petals are swept away,
the azure flower remains,
a frosty jewel,
polished by the tempest's violent hand.
it now dances, isolated,
amidst the barren vastness,
a wistful beauty sullied by the ravages of chaos.
in this tragic solace,
the azure flower finds a strange,
elegiac beauty,
a trophy to the brutal capriciousness
of the universe's whims.
the canvas drained of hue,
except a drop of beau hue blue,
a little color in a bleak landscape.
question is will the bee tricks ever get to thrive,
or will this field be bereft of her flora forever?
She smiles
and considers the crowd,
all backward somersaulting
detached vagabonds, all,
serious soft smalls revealed -
marshmallows imbued
with the glee of writing
irregular poetry;
works of art thou art,
thou art, thou art, all indeed -
and what did Dickinson say,
“the Maples never knew
that you were coming -
I declare, how red
their faces grew” -
well, we all march on,
and by the side of our roads,
the righteous town criers
of prognostication, stand
their grounds for commentary,
like sensate servile monks
full of the base sound facts,
ringing their shellac bells,
like an exercise in pulling weights;
the waits inside their cries foretell,
of the things we do not know,
will never know,
like the bride we all are,
gullible, innocent of what is to come,
but we dance our dance
flirting with luscious life
beckoning come hither,
we still write our own vows,
and throw our skirts asunder,
spinning bottles, all undressed
half addressed half said,
punctilious lost in
wayward pentameter,
such bad whirling dervish
behaviour,
truth and dare
and Father Time
will kiss and tell
we poetically march on
we all march on
we think we know
which side we're on
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“All those Hills you left for me to Hue,
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued”
Emily Dickinson. March.
The shadows from the moon glide across the pond
all is quiet as i visit walking softly under the willows
of this place i am fond
the voices of the night sing a welcomed melody
for right here right now there is no other place
i would rather be
the seasons change and with each renewal my
secret place welcomes me home like a warm blanket
during the evening chill
my thoughts gather here and each breath becomes
entwined while the problems of the day disappear like
the fog rising from the warm water into the cool
evening air
as i sit against the tree my eyes are drawn upward
through the branches where the first stars of the evening
are making their appearance
it is almost as if i am looking within a great snow
globe and when shaken all the stars twinkle and
move about in a dark velvet blue sky
a breeze collects swiftly yet quietly running itself along
the edge of the pond picking up leaves and swirling them
round and round like a whirling dervish
how lucky i am to witness natures beauty presenting itself
in front of me like a grand play which changes from time
to time without reason or rhyme...
Gaining, by loosing
dancing to the mystic tune
the whirling dervish
Tumultuous funnel spins, a whirling dervish spitting out destruction.
12/5/15
For Silent One's One-liners II contest
The whirling Dervish leaves fell…
Clouds of reindeer from the kebab
House as well, in deepest down town
Camberwell …a Turkish Christmas
…he announced
“Come and hunt wolves in the Caspian
Mountains with my uncle” he said….
I declined …keen to protect the wolves
And my reputation as a liberal
Damn...what a fool I was:
As I incorporate colours with images in my dreams,
Still it’s more the emotional attachments that set the scenes.
Like an onlooker in another world of landscapes,
I am in control as I pull back the invisible drapes.
My mind wanders from my body so light
And flies off with birds into hot summer nights
I choose the scenes I want to participate in
I choose who will tonight be my fiend or kin
Why just last night I was challenged in combat,
Defending in Kung Fu but I never attack,
Until of course they make the first move,
But in dreams it is easy never to lose.
I'm a whirling dervish, dancing on my toes
Not fighting, but awing my friends and foes
While moving my mind wanders far away
I dance out of me, leave only my body to stay
You will often find yourself in strange situations,
Sometimes a dream will turn in various stipulations.
***
January 31, 2017
White Wolf
Darren White
"See: A Marriage Worthy, Letters Offered to an Aching Bride"
See
The blood of man
drips from his fingers
note the true
Son of Man
No loud crimson
cardinal feathers
gently caressing
psalming minds
No White Hat
nor flag in hand, yet
Purple hearted
when War came
carrying in his
arms crucifixion
nails for bullets
in palms holy human
outstretched
lobbying armies
and splitting sides
dripping red, and
blue bruised, the once
good book holders
debating defense
four seraphim and
their regiments
glistening oily black
misunderstood magi
with their presents
now fierce and hell bent
whirling dervish
baptising all those
heaven sent
dripping their fire
burning gold,
myrrh and frankincense
transfusing the just
the bled out pacifists
now all undressed
Holy Sees truth
for what it means
now all unblessed
the stripping of brides
standing firm
in their pure virginal beliefs
they come hymn singing
riding astride
the four horsemen
caught up in
a marriage
worthy
of an honour guard
attention arching
Apocalypse
The 3 unsealed
slow letters offered
to an aching bride
to freely choose
her husband’s
best side
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"If you close your eyes
and you pick a side
Will you follow blindly
into the darkness?
If you close your eyes
and you pick a side
Will you find yourself
broken and heartless?
In a world on fire,
in a world on fire"
"If in some smothering dreams,
you too could pace
Behind the wagon
that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes
writhing in his face,
His hanging face,
like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear,
at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from
the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer,
bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores
on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell
with such high zest
To children ardent
for some desperate glory,
The old Lie:
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."
(excerpt Wilfren Owens -
"Dulce et Decorum Est")
Believe What You Seek…
Believe what you seek,
not what others would have you speak.
Ignore the signs stopping you.
That whirling dervish of conviction one conveys
need not, nor should not,
suggest what your audience wishes you to believe.
The question is…
Do you convey,
speak.
or seek?
Would that more artists
were inclined to present but a perception,
rather than a guised demand to follow.
Might such an approach lead to a more enlightened state of mind for the curious?
For what is one person’s understanding
over another?
Can yours or my insight of experience
be an end all to art as you or I think it should be?
Reality’s imagination thinks not.
For as Frederick Franck posits: “An artist has an obligation to question the conditions that rule all our lives… and to cause his audience to do the same.”
Nothing more.
Nothing less,
regardless of the discipline one is partaking of.
For writers,
there is but knowledge converted to words.
Write on you lexicon-warriors.
Time could be short.
Ugh, Why Must The Missus Vacuum At The Crack Of Dawn?
(circa: early December 27, 2018 morning)
There appears to be a
virulent (possibly deadly) strain
of housekeeping virus
Hoover ring in the air
asymptomatic tentatively linked to rein
deer droppings (micro-organisms) blare
ring and trumpeting beyond
the threshold to humans, though plain
lee send audible wavelengths
to symbiotic species clear
as a bell, which organisms don
nano size MAGA hats, and main
lee set up shop in carpet threads,
and chiefly thrive on deer
pellets, where one bee bee
gun size bullet serves long lane
of critters unseen can easily
make headway into ear,
eyes, nose, et cetera other
orifices, and Kane
inject unsuspecting vacuum sealed
byproduct to forswear
unsightly piles of dirt, debris,
dust bunnies, which Jain
Dharma would find
appalling horrifically glare
ring at desecrating supposed germ
carrying pests calling utterly inane,
the constant effort
to keep house beautiful heir
ruled ding disinfectant resistant,
whether mite tee Germaine,
or itty bitty teensy weensy siblings
many named Oh Fair
Roe One Wade for me, nonetheless seek
out porous fleshy terrain
allowing, enabling and providing
pinhead size portal
i.e. vector to engineer
transmitting a fast
acting alien entity
without any explain
nation, an immediate urge to spruce up
the place applying interlinear
trigonometry (of course adhering to
Feng Shui when rearranging), without drain
ning, lessening, zapping,
et cetera, but meer
really loose sing a whirling dervish
(mini tornado) fiercely
finding the spouse on feverish spree
to clean entire apartment chain!
I sung to the music
Smile upon
A whirling dervish
A Javanese mystic
A man of nature
And a Buddhist monk
Ask
What is important?
Your creed or your deed
Being theist or atheist
Cast out by society
Just being you
For we are the seed of Adam
People like us
Banned by society
In the name of
Righteousness
Listen to nightingales
Be free
For God has
No religion …..
( If this a poem then am dreamin )
19/05/12