The Metaphoric Garden...
all the while, literalism
is wished. Why bother with some
allusions? One can be direct
to the point and be
understood point-blank,
no holds bar, black is black
and white is white,
a spade is a spade is a spade,
the cause is that which the cause
is caused,
bluntly, candidly,
what the heck is this
going around the bush
and figuring out
what is hidden through
symbols and
concealed through some
metaphors....
but my dear, this
is the realm of what we want you to know
and on the other hand
we also want you not to know
so well....
and that is, precisely
this thrill, remember those imaginary
toads in the
real garden?
or those real toads in the
imaginary garden,
feel them, they are all here,
hear them, but my god, by god,
you cannot see them
here... not yet....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Real And Unreal...
in the imaginary garden
the real toads are croaking
in that imaginary room
a real person is
thinking
in that imaginary thought
some real things
are broken.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Must Accept As I Tell You
you must accept as i tell you
that your absence for days
did not made my heart grow fonder
inside my imaginary garden
all the real toads are croaking.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Well, Say It As You See It
it is nice
yes, always the feeling is nice
when you call a spade a spade
lets your heart out
nothing tightens
or chokes
nothing to vomit
at the end
nothing hidden
well, they laid the principle
of candid honesty
say it as it pleases you
not as it pleases them
always, yes, always
call a spade a spade
that is rule # one
honesty, that lonely word
well, i learned it by heart
learning to say
what is in my mind
but what do i get?
nothing
everyone is displeased
with my honesty
that i am one tactless
form of shit
this monstrous mammal
this elephant with a tusk
this snake with a venom
this mischievous child
laughing at the
naked emperor
without clothes
well, yes, i still say what i see
calling a spade always a spade
and what do i get?
yes, this one,
nothing but this one
this poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For You My Friend The Great Lover Of Truth
when the doctor comes out from his room and tells you
that you have cancer
and at stage IV
would you rather think that this must be a lie?
or when you find out that your wife is having an affair
with another man
and decides to leave you
alone
would you rather say that you prefer a lie?
or when your younger brother sailing on the seas
is kidnapped by professional pirates in Somalia
asking for a big amount for ransom
and you have no money to use to help him
would you still prefer this truth?
or when your father is hostaged by the rebels
and will be the next to be beheaded
and the government still does nothing
would you rather think that this is but a big joke
and not the truth?
think my friend, you were looking for the real toads
in that imaginary garden
these are these toads croaking now
in the middle of the heavy rain
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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So Much Time Has Been Wasted
to be honest with you
so much of my time has been taken by this
foolishness
so much effort
squeezing my brain and stretching my bones
and pinching my ears
and biting my fingernails
this poetry
but what can i do?
i am hooked to its whims and caprices
it imagery and
logical imagination
got no regrets somehow
i still love this 'imaginary garden with real toads in them'
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Spade
The beauty spot was borrowed
Now my sweet knife rusts tomorrow
I'm a confession that is waiting to be heard
Burn your empty rain down on me
Whisper your deathbeat so softly
We bend our knees at the alter of my ego
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
All my lilies' mouths are open, like they're begging for dope and hoping
their bitter petal chant, "we can kick, you wont be back"
Im a diamond that is tired, of all the faces i've aquired, we must secure the shadow ere the substance fades
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
And we said 'til we die
And we said 'til we die
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
And we said 'til we die
And we said 'til we die
song performed by by Marilyn Manson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
quote by Marianne Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Better Way
There’s a better way of digging
Than that, Uncle said, taking the
Spade from your hands and showing
You with a craftsman’s touch how
It should be done. You watched in
Wonder how with ease and skill he’d
Made the trench begin to shape far
More quickly than your frail work
Produced. He handed you back the
Spade and you noticed the calluses
That years of using spades and other
Workman’s tools had made. He took
Hold of your hand and turned it over,
Gazed intently and smiled and shook
His head. Such lily-white hands were
Made for pen not spade or hoe or rake,
He said, finish what’s started, lad, then
Return to your studies and pen instead.
poem by Terry Collett
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Your Philosophy
you make it candid
nothing of the non-transparent twists and turns
direct to the point
no holds bar nothing to hide
you say what is in your mind
you call a spade a spade a square is a square
not a queer queer queer ideal,
you don't write a poem it is pointless to write any
you live your life
you rhyme
you count every step like a meter
a haiku
a sonnet
you like it crisp and short and
always saying less
to anything
a trek on the mountainside
feeling the ways of the snake
rather than talk and talk
duck quacking
you say, 'plunge! '
live life
do not let it just be written by them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Yes, My Poems Are Imaginary
these poems tell about despair
and who will ever like despair? you grumble
why can't these poems have
happines as its theme
a poem that like a belly dancer must entertain
weary bedouins
oasis to the thirsty camels
cool green palms to travellers whose feet are dusty
and even blistered
grass to some snakes
and trees to black birds
rest for the night
tent and wine and bread and lyre to our passions
but do not worry my friend
these poems are imaginary
like a garden existing only in our minds
we transport some toads and butterflies
and clouds and sun and tonight
let us have the moon and some glasses of strong wine
let us put our bed outside
in this garden where the moon shines
and creates the silver sheen in our happy faces
we love illusions, we can have all the illusions we need
when we are drunk, when we dance when we are finally drunk
when we even want to make love
when we are drunk & when we make love and we do not choose
whom to kiss and caress and touch an unknown body
with our hands and lips and choose
what we remember and what we do not want to remember
now i want to write
about illusory gardens and imagine despair that despair
has no place and must leave right away
let me
do not hinder me write what i want
about what i can disown
but i assure you, whatever that is, these poems
i am talking to you, as a friend, and even be a lover at the end,
even if the rest are imaginary, and fiction and illusory
i am still real amidst this grumble and rubble
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Black and White and Red
Black and White
And Red I see
Demons they do
Torture me
Black and White
And Red all day
The voices are real
Or so they say
Black and White
And Red abound
I'm lost I call
I'm never found
Black and White
And Red flow out
I scream but you
Don't hear me shout
Black and White
And Red so bright
Exit blood and
Enter light
Black and White
And Red of death
Now I breathe
My final breath
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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A Few Advices To A Nephew Studying The Science Of Psychology
you say you want noise
so much noise in fact
in the middle of the night
to bury the boredom reigning in yourself.
i wonder if you have consulted the gods and goddesses of poertry.
if you have gone at the entrance of its temples.
one does not need noise to expunge boredom.
one needs only silence.
you tell me i am different. Sort of telling me you are different
and you belong to the wonders of your youth.
i am telling you, you are wrong my dear nephew.
you have taken so much noise, and you are lost.
you have disregarded the voice of your heart
and the furies will take the revenge.
the noise will take you like the Pied Piper of Hamelin
to the sea with all the rats and there
they will drown with you.
Take your time. Have fun with so much noise.
When this fails, and i know it will, please come back
and drink the lovely potion of silence.
This is the beginning
of poetry.
Some things are so real, in this poetic imagination.
As she once puts it: an imaginary garden with real toads in them.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Call A Spade A Spade
at that very young age
you were taught to call a spade a spade
and a square a square. There are no exceptions to the rule.
There are no compromises with the truth.
Then you grow to be a very nice, self-made man.
You practice what was taught to you.
And you meet pain and disappointments.
And you suspect that the teachers are wrong.
Time teaches you.
Squares sometimes become rectangles on an extension of a principle
to accommodate a compromise of a certain shape.
A spade need not be a spade depending on who gets axed.
A square peg you sometimes put in a round hole and it does not matter
really what happens next. You are simply told to do so as ordered.
And what is important is that they like it.
You survive the hazards of this life.
You become successful on the science of compromise,
the art of plea bargaining, the techniques of human relations.
You get some plaques for a lessened self-restraint.
You get the awards and recognitions for being their man of the year.
And one day you look at yourself in the mirror.
You see a different face and you do not like it anymore.
You quit and hide. You go away. You want to be left alone.
You want to reinvent yourself and listen to the voice.
Carefully, you cure the sickness of success.
All you need is a self who accepts yourself. All you need is the touch
of your hand. The applause has become pain itself.
And there you are, finding the truth again.The real meaning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nearby
Say a spade
a spade
see all fade.
Face the sky
find everything
nearby.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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I may die
I am not the one who will ditto,
Seek someone else to serve your purpose,
I call a spade spade,
If you compell me to do so,
I may die,
For the burden is unbearable
To my heart.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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My pride is…
I earn within which I eat and wear.
No jealousy, no begging either.
Calling a spade a spade, I’m content..
My pride is to live within my means.
10.07.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Jim Of Maribyrnong
They were forthright days when Jim was born,
When they called a spade a spade.
And statesmen held in lofty scorn
he trickster's sticky trade.
For their eyes were clear and their views were strong,
And they'd be no party's too!
And big, bluff Jim of Maribyrnong
Learned wisdom in this school.
For black was black, and white was white,
When good Victoria reigned,
And argument made no wrong right,
No demagogue explained
That good might ever come of wrong,
Or black be painted white,
When big, bluff Jim of Maribyrnong
Went out to fight the fight.
'Twas thus Jim learned his politics;
And he's little changed today;
For he failed to learn those subtle tricks
That modern 'statesmen' play.
To aid the folk who'd suffered long
Thro' tyranny's base laws,
Marched big, bluff Jim of Maribyrnong,
Staunch for the Labor cause.
But times have changed a deal of late,
And the 'art' of politics;
And they say that Jim is out of date,
And will not learn new tricks.
But still unswayed by wrangling throng,
Forthright and conscience free,
Goes simple Jim of Maribyrnong
With his crude, blunt honesty.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Prima Facie
My black rose,
I like to caress
your soft petals.
savoury pollen
stolen my soul.
like to jump
over the fence.
Oh! the gardener with the spade
is crueller than the prickly shrubs.
I like to hide in the garden secretly
my little haughty
naughty bee request a nod.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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