May 17, 2005

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  I wrote an angry poem the other day. I like to say I’m a passionate person, and this passion sometimes exerts itself on the emotion of anger, which in some cases can be negative, especially if I direct that anger at a specific person. A good friend once remarked that I have the capability, through observation and an almost tactless sense of honesty, to hurt people’s feelings rather easily. Nobody has ever remarked, however, about the capability of my own feelings to be hurt. However, this poetry post will include my latest “angry” poem last, and will also contain quite a few “angry” poems throughout the years. I received some “comments” in the past couple of Poetry Posts that remarked there was so much to read, that they didn’t know how to respond, or were simply overwhelmed at the amount of poems I post at one time. Well, folks, this won’t be any different. I post in “themes” and I have written a lot over the years. Some of these poems have been featured on this blog before, but I’m always seeing new subscriptions and new comments from new readers, so I don’t mind “recycling”. If someone has read a particular poem then just skip it. I’ll be kind enough to remark Previously Posted in white after the date if it has been posted in a WhenWordsCollide entry before if I remember.  I don’t mind reading poems over and over again if I like them, and perhaps some of you enjoy rereading poems I present in other contexts. All these poems come from my life and experience, and were “locked up” for many years, so they like to get out and “breathe” every now and then, like when you a fine bottle of wine is uncorked after sitting in the cellar for many years. Here goes, some angry poems from the vaults of ElectricPoetry:
  

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  “Escape”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © 1971 (17 years old) Previously Posted

  
  

  
  They start their wars
  They scream their complaints
  They forget about sanity
  They lock humanity within itself
  And life is even forgotten
  While we cease to be free

  
  

  
  They consume their answers
  They regress to childhood
  Peace lies dormant
  At the bottom of their trash heap
  And creatures die daily
  Nobody cares about the world

  
  

  
  A window stares at us
  They built it for light
  And light it is
  A method for escape from
  This cluttered battered
  Dying world in which we exist

  
  

  
  A gaping aperture offers escape
  From their forlorn environment
  But once outside into
  Their stagnant air
  One wonders if this is the way out
  Or if he should collapse their way

  
  

  
  “Linear Projection”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © 1971 (17 years old)

  
  

  
  They huddled in the corner,
  Telling secrets to their ears.
  Glancing at the dangers,
  Whispering lies to ease their fears.
  Looking up,
  Then back again.
  The end will soon be near.
  You and me
  And they and we
  May have to end life here.

  
  

  Amongst the falling embers
  Came the hope they craved receiving.
  Love and common laughter
  Bred the faith they turned believing.
  Turning to
  Then back again.
  The end will soon be near.
  You and me
  And they and we
  May have to end life here.

  
  

  There came from the horizon
  A flash they called salvation.
  Truth told them the better,
  ‘Twas the finish of their nation.
  Praying now
  Then back again.
  The end will soon be near.
  You and me
  And they and we
  Will have to end life
  Here.

  
  

  “My Hometown”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © 1972

  
  

  
  Robots sucking up the dust
  Lamplights perpendicularly perfect
  New parkinglot
  4 gasstation corners harboring
    hungry automobiles
  Gang hangout over on Shirley St.
  Gang hangout over on Eunice St.
  Gang hangout on the boulevard
  One lamplight bending unpependicularly ruining the scenery
  Of ripped open storefronts and
  ripped off merchandise and
  ripped up billboards and
  black spraypaint on the
  policestation walls.

  
  

  Robots spewing forth exhaust
  White parallel lines on the road
  Black rubber marks in the intersection
  Gang hangout in the hardware store
  Gang hangout in the food store
  Gang hangout in two of the
  4 gasstation corners…

  
  

  
  Robots collecting money
  Robots arresting violators
  Robots applauding entertainers
  Gang hangout downtown
  Gang hangout uptown
  Gang hangout across the street
  Robots this gang hangout there
  Robots that gang hangout here

  
  

  Robots robots robots
  Gang hangout gang hangout gang hangout

  
  

  Robots standing under perpendicular lamplight frenching goodnight

  
  

  Gang hangout over at city hall.

  
  

  “Quiet Quarrel”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © December 31, 1982 4:45 p.m.

  
  

  
  Silence speaks such serenity
  Anger always arrives too soon.
  A little compassion, a little fruition
  And at times we will all sing in tune.

  
  

  If nothing but peace falls to pieces
  And with anger arriving too soon
  I speak for compassion, no growth intuition
  No soft pure and bright honeymoon.

  
  

  Even elysium always away
  Tension tugs, terror regains
  No more that compassion, it gives no fruition
  And soft pleasures, they turn to harsh pains.

  
  

  
  “My Rules- You Lose”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © November 24, 1983 7:45 p.m. Previously Posted

  
  

  
  Shall we read the tattered rulebook with respect
  Reap a real well rounded wisdom with our peers
  Or throw away the numbered steps within our sect
  Mount the muskets, strap on bandoliers

  
  

  Should we stop a while,
  admire the golden sun
  Reap ripe rich rewards on bended knee
  Or strike fast first
  and then before we’ve done
  Cleanse the Earth, Jehovah’s impurity

  
  

  In a second’s glance an eon stops his tracks
  Irreversible fury feigning purest calm
  No one has the time to ponder facts
  With relative ease, existence we’ll embalm

  
  

  
  “T.A.S. (teen age suicide)”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © May 21, 1984 5:48 p.m. Previously Posted

  
  

  
  Underneath this yellowed pall
   There lived a raging youth; a soul who dreamed it all
  He wore his heart naked
  Exposed to the hurt
   Now it no longer beats it just lay in the dirt

  
  

  Underneath this open gaze
   The eyes which once burned bright, a knowing steely gaze
  He saw too much
  Exposed to the hurt
   Now he belongs on his back in the dirt

  
  

   This world wasn’t made for our children
   This time is too brutal and scary
   They know they are smarter than we were
   And they haven’t the time to be wary

  
  

  Underneath this chunk of skin
   There lived a vital truth, but it did not fit in
  It called out to us
  But no one would listen
   Now it no longer speaks, it’s chords are bitten

  
  

  
  “Monkey Bidness Redux”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © March 3 , 2000 6:21 p.m. pst
   
  With apologies to Chuck Berry.

  
  

  Pulled up to the fillin station, paid too
  much money for the gas
  Planes fly through the Burbank wall
  I’ve got to save my a**
  Try to access all my websites
  Homestead’s on the fritz
  Can’t expound, computer’s down
  My sites aren’t gettin hitz
  Too much monkey bidness
  Too much monkey bidness
  Too much monkey bidness for me to get involved in

  
  

  Go to work, and get a sale,
  The boss berates my savvy
  I need new specs the doc says man
  You need bifocals. Heavy!
  The primary’s tomorrow, and the
  candidates seem like they’re on the Golden Globes show.
  I’d laugh, it all seems funny but I wonder where it will all go?
  Too much monkey bidness
  Too much monkey bidness
  Too much monkey bidness for me to be involved in.

  
  

  Saw the kids play in the yard,
  They skateboard in front of my car
  I try to be a nice guy
  But is this some kind of turf war?
  Too many games, too many shames,
  Too many times to get it wrong.
  So I’ll sit down, maybe have a beer,
  And sing this little song,
  Too much monkey bidness
  Too much monkey bidness
  Too much monkey bidness for me to be involved in.

  
  

  BaDoomDoom

  
  

  
  “Perceived Crazy Actions In Sanity Lie”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © July 13th, 2003 9:38 a.m. pdt  Previously Posted

  
  

  
  Inside, deep, dedicated, heartfelt, I know the feelings are let loose,
  And the pent up inefficiencies of others’ illusions do not touch my psyche at all.
  Oh, they think they know it all and only know what they don’t,
  and I have always sworn that I know nothing,

  
  

  But yet feel all…..
  And each week I read and hear of life’s little skirmishes which result in pain,
  And lingering,
  And death,
  And destruction.
  And each day I feel that I am not a part of this insanity, and that in sanity, I live
  untouched, but futilely feeling of the fervent fevers of frustration that
  Cause the masses to unleash this bubbling anger
  I was untouched perhaps, and then,
  Unknowing and unwanting, the full force of insanity’s blows hit me left right and center,
  I am a malleable dummy, pushed inside out with incredible ease,
  By the purported sabotage inflicted by those for whom I once held respect.

  
  

  The days can pass without knowledge.
  That existence can deny reality is a truth as old as our consciousness.
  I am rife with hurt and agonize now nightly
  Because inconsequential inconsistencies can be set up as emotional bullets
  Which rip my self satisfied facade to burnt shreds.

  
  

  Are those whom I respected yet do not now playing games with my psyche?
  Are they who are clueless to clarity charting the course of my life?
  Are the inmates running the asylum of insanity?
  And, In Sanity, do I live in my skin?
  Or, does insanity live in my skin, as they think?

  
  

  Because they never knew anything anyway. They choose to believe what they see.
  I know I am sanity solidified, shouting only because they can’t hear.
  That is the way it has always been. That is the way it is.
  The clueless and the cancerous cacophany of indifference, laughing
  All the way to smug delight,
  Cannot know truth,
  Cannot know pain,
  Cannot know what it does to me.

  
  

  So I am called by the insane as in sanity I trust.
  “Do you think you need help?” they ask trustingly,
  Unbeknownst to them that the sabotage did not begin yesterday,
  And the ineffectual stupidity of mankind, who documents each tirade
  as if it were insanity’s call to arms,
  And his ticket out of inconsequentialness,
  Because he is smarter than I had thought.

  
  

  “They know how to push your buttons”, they told me.
  “They are hurt by your truthfulness.”
  Truth hurts.
  And I have always thought I could see the truth coming.
  But I didn’t see this coming.
  That is because it is not life’s truth,
  But life’s lies,
  And the talent to proceed will never hamper the truth in my eyes.
  

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  Here’s the new one:

  
  

  
  “Ebullient Agony”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © May 14th, 2005 10:54 a.m.

  
  

  
  Responding to harbingers of hollow hellos
  hanging from handmedown recollections
  Quelling desperate dogmas of delusion
  dangling from draconian dungeons
  dripping with the blood of sullied soldiers
  of solitude
  saluting salacious stupidity

  
  

  Ever increasing stipends of squalor
  signifying stasis
  scurrying about with no purpose
  Answering questions which do not exist
  ?
  Encouraging bounties which wither
  in the sweeping soft scarred
  dalliances of forgotten youth
  as they persist

  
  

  Asking of humanity why
  Listening to answers that barely exist
  Perpetual ebullient agonies cry in pain
  Pleasurable perfidy astounds
  Eyes without sight abounding
  The dead are only buried in the ground
  And knowledge utters not a sound

  
  

  Responding to callow calumnies
  disguised as innocent innoculations against
  sanity
  Breaking the mirror as one stares
  at mass vanity
  Insouciance overwhelms
  as diatribes against monothiestic
  magnitudes magnify morose maleficence
  and niggling knockdown dragouts
  diefy dogeared dalliances with
  no purpose at all

  
  

  And no one responded to the call

  
  

  Does the cry of yellowed youth
  appear as a scream of surreptitious
  yearning
  ?
  Do the garbled phone calls to 911
  from murderous satanic perpetrators
  of unthinkable theories of doom
  herald their eventual salvation
  ?

  
  

  Or has the whole da*n world gone crazy
  Ebullient agony awash in the blood of the innocent
  Two battered and bloody
  lives held out in the balance of boisterous monstrosity
  found by the same maleficent murderer
  of common sensical living and good works

  
  

  Responding to the harbingers of hollow hellos
  the poet screams with no meanings for maligned memory
  as the news stories repeat the ebullient agony of
  lost souls
  ravaged by time
  Questioning, responding, ranting, roiling with
  no regard to circumstance,
  one can only cry to Heaven
  one can only ask why
  never to begin the response
  And never to gain understanding

  
  

  as the devil dogs chew up the reasons in the distance

  
  

   

  • 8:22 am
  • 11 Comments