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
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"
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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".
“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