Tag Archives: Poet

Art Games: Spirits On Mortals

A glass of milk Français : Un verre de lait

The Imp

The Imp (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The little spirit is in his element tonight
The wine is particularly sharp at night
He is a teetotaller though
His pet-monkey is not
But the spirit loves milk
And the milk is particularly white tonight
The monkey’s eyes now red with wine
The spirit’s teeth now white with milk
And as whenever he’s drunk on milk
Inspiration barges in through his door!

He doesn’t quite write in ink or bytes
He doesn’t write on paper or screen
That’s ordinary level art
He delights in skilfully weaving romantic fantasies
Into the mind of that lonesome teenager
Those are the most gullible sorts
He enjoys craftily presenting visions
Giving the uninitiated ones “spiritual” experiences
Making them believe they just had epiphanies
He fancies softly forming dreams
Which the sleeping man is kept busy with
Yet some live their waking lives under these dreams’ shadows
He favours sparking the writer’s imagination
“Eureka! Genius!!!” The poet screams
“Pawn!” the spirit sneers
He doesn’t mind teasing the artist
Making his head burst with “ideas”
That only render him insomniac without real result

Who shall sue this mischievous being
For Writing Under the Influence (WUI)
And his only defence:
He was performing advanced level art!
In drunkenness he had forgotten
That the Creator-Spirit watched in silence
A Spirit much smarter with a stranger sense of humour
“Artistic ingenuity” the little spirit commends himself
“Predictable imp” smiles the Supreme Spirit

Now how’s that for art!

Mad City Poet Meets Humans’ Mad Side 1

The Secret Cave, Enshrouded in Roots


The blind man strolling in the lion’s homely jungle ;
The deaf man dancing to the rhythm of music;
The dumb man auditioning at an opera;
The lame man on the tracks with a cheetah.
Only one other creature boasts louder than humans.

They take dangerous issues lightly.
They want to be seen happy and leading great lives.
They speak falsely authoritatively on things beyond them.
They are passionate about being in control and all-able.
They are so proud they refuse to admit to being so.

My father got sick of them,
And went off into the forest.
After my father prepared them the afrodisiac,
To keep them on heat for as long,
They naturally indulged in indiscriminate use.

What they did not bank on happening
Was the heat burning them out.
They waxed old way prematurely, their vitality burnt out;
Realizing late, that nothing in this realm promises AND delivers –

A life of sizzling vitality, tasty euphoria and rich values.
All in a course of meal!

Explained -The Mad Village Poet 11(End)

Jullunder: monkey drinking coca-cola

Please refer to my post @ https://ifeelshadows.wordpress.com/2012/07/16/my-idyllic-village-experience/ for a background to the story.

Original(O) :The city was becoming crowded
With the less-hairy members of my species.
Explained(E): I am at it again, pretending as an ape. As an ape, I regard human beings as my relatives. At least, science has shown that they are the next to me. One little thing science has blundered in, is saying that they are AHEAD of me in the chain. But, I am waiting patiently for when their lesser intellligence will get the better of them; and they will wipe out themselves in their violent and selfish animalistic fevers. A nuclear war dance would be a good way to send them all reeling off the stage. And I’ll have my day.
O: They laugh at my afro;
I mourn for their baldness.
E: Naturally, these deluded humans think I have more hair than I need.
(Incidentally, as a human, I actually had quite a lot of hair on my head -the typical afro style. And people never seem to say enough about it.)
Some of them have discovered their nakedness, but unfortunately can never grow back their hair no matter how much hair-growth formulae they use.
O: At least they have carved out a new niche.
I shall call them humans.
E: I have, at least, given them what they want. They always seem to be obsessed with recognition and some sense of importance in itself. They always seem to be crazy about identity(irrespective of whatever bizarre thing/belief/ideology they really stand for), worth(even when they are not useful to the next man), carving out niches and being different(even if this new niche is a self-destructive, no-good niche). This identity-thingy or title seems to be a different drug of addiction in itself, to them. They want to be KNOWN for something. Anything!
O: Now, I hope none comes back
To interrupt my solitary forest meditation;
Begging for some hair-growth formula
When they can’t keep warm by being “on heat”;
E: Humans are so ashamed of themselves that they never seem to tire of finding new ways to alter their biological make-ups. Some want to live forever and would spend their lives to purchase an anti-aging cream even if the active ingredient of that cream is monkey soup. Some want to change the basic colours of their skins.
These humans claim they are free-thinking free-will beings. Yet they have become enslaved to doing as their mind pleases.
Little wonder they can’t keep warm by being “on heat”. Little wonder they get high and dry seeking pleasures and whatever else their FREE minds desire. It’s a freaky cycle of knowledge/enlightenment – thirst – search – acquisition/”satisfaction” – realisation of further desires. They get all and they get nothing in the end. Still left cold!
I’ll probably humour them and do them a favour: in my solitary forest meditation, I’ll cook up an afrodisiac that can keep them “on heat” for as long!
O: And are desperate for some meaning,
Which is to be found only in monkey soup.
E: And, after all their search, they will realize that none of what they got made any real, lasting sense.
Maybe, they will at last come bow at my feet and I’ll teach them -the fulfilment in simplicity and realising one’s place as a creature.
O: It is midnight again-
My period of peak activity;
Ears stretched taut, hairs standing alert,
Nostrils flared, lips set,
Eyes unblinking, fingers feverishly working.
E: Just as written -my nocturnal self!
O: The mad village poet goes to sleep on his laid egg;
Hoping it would hatch by morning into the mad city poet!
E: Yeah! The eggs is hatching already. This being the last of the Mad Village Poet’s rants, The Mad City Poet is coming out of the shell soon. I can feel the baby kicking in my tommy now.
Thank you.
Couples hanging out on Friday night,
A transaction that comes with a “minimum wage” agreement.
Pity if either one is an economist;
Then the other will be a charitable social worker!
Epilogue(Explained): It’s Friday night, and the mating ritual of the humans reaches a climax. It needn’t be said that: even the so-called romantic love is still a two-way thing. It’s a kind of business transaction. It’s not as pure and selfless as they make it out to be.
Shame! Considering that in our ape kingdom, you needn’t be a father to the fruits of your royal oats sown! You don’t even have to give the she a banana to buy her butts!
The sad part of OUR people’s animalism!

Explained -The Mad Village Poet 9

English: Long Road

Please refer to my post @ https://ifeelshadows.wordpress.com/2012/07/16/my-idyllic-village-experience/ for a background to the story.

Original(O): Time to walk the open streets of poetry
Though many preferring safety-sheds and lookouts.
Explained(E): Traditional poets face the challenge of dwindling fans and enthusiasts, on a stage where modern musicians, classical novelists, actors, etc also strut. There is therefore the need for courageously using poetry in ingenious ways, to get one’s message to the world. In the real sense, poetry is actually an open street of expression, but somehow, people seem to run into potholes. And, like I once said, dry lands(bad writings) are so easy to find these days.
O: However, the monkey struts in it
Having mastery of arts,
And immune from trial in court.
The wisdom of the Creator.
The beauty of art.
E: In my past writings, I have often likened myself to a monkey in this sense: I do not pride myself as a veteran writer, and so my “bad” works may be excused. (Big smile + wink!)
In this writing, I am saying: everyone has a right to expression. Just like what holds in the particularist school of philosophy, virtually everyone can be regarded as a poet. Even if they are not renowned poet laureates. So, they can stroll out in the streets of poetry freely; and so far they CAN truly express THEMSELVES, they can’t be found guilty.
O: Is the writer just a creator of words,
Bored with the very essence?
E: And the answer would be a spotless “No”. Writing is definitely not all about the use of words for their beauty. It’s also a lot about the message one hopes to send out. This is why a writing with words that cannot send out the message of the poet may classify as a dubious one.
For instance, “The Mad Village Poet 9(Original)”!
O: And, knowing there is no end to words,
Shouldn’t there be enough to go round?
(Give hear, you unemployed ones!)
E: There are writers who started from the scratch as freelance writers. Some even started from the “basement” as private ranters. These have found a very meaningful and gainful occupation in writing. It is really an open street with shops and stalls.
O:And, now, some will say:
Some writers have command of the literal world.
E: Well, we don’t have to all open wholesale depots on this street. Let some be content with small stalls; and even some with hawking!
O: And after the elaborate journey into literal insanity,
Won’t the mad poet get bored?
E: Indeed, it is boring sticking to one manner of expression throughout one’s writing career. By the time I am writing this explained version, I have already concluded the eleventh and last (original) mad village rant.
O: (Wonder if his rants are not considered insults
To the job description of the writer.)
E: Of course, I do not mean “ranting” in itself is insulting. I was particular about the mad village poet series. Without these explanations, they would have really been terrible excuses for writing.
O: Won’t he then do what he knows best
Thinking and writing like one who loves monkey soup!
E: And the mad village poet did just that: he thought of laying an egg! One that will hatch into The Mad City Poet!
Thank you.