Silent passion of creation
Paperback, 196 Pages
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Ian Sawicki has been writing poetry for over twenty years. He is a Manchester born poet, who has dedicated his life to exploration and composition of poetry. His work reflects the many great influential experiences of his life, the pain, the pleasure combined to create new exciting poetry.
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May 28, 2012A Whale Of A Time Your language is exquisite - right up to the final moments, time shall wither your flesh as the sun bleaches bones that kept the strength, waves of starlight will be home now, the heavens a different sea, full of spectacular songs of light, there is no room for emptiness in the afterlife's sips of colour. I shuffle sandcastles around you as the final flickers catch your eye, dream well on the journey, the ocean will not forget your presence, it listens still as that heartbeat seeks the depths of rebirth's magic. The body's but a shell for the spirit within, soar now - I'll whisper a prayer as my footsteps leave you behind, perhaps this brand new memory will be distorted as age welcomes me, but I will remember the day you died.
May 28, 2012Please Walk With Me Perhaps seriousness does fan your brow, but that is fine for it touches me too - Unpredictability's a bright smile that streaks across wild personality, I will be your friend if you'll walk with me. So many combinations that make us, character is a dark spiralled staircase which spins our spirits into distant realms. If you walk with me I will be your friend. Tantrums or not, we're all children at heart, we can brood or dance or pout like swirled love, it matters not for laughter will surface and wrap the warm days into the cool nights. If you are afraid then please walk with me.
May 28, 2012A Spinning Poem Indefinite time strokes mystery's realm as personality explodes into truth's universal simplicity, emotionally charged ideas slip away as I release the restraints of society. Insignificant humanity - God winks, and purpose is revealed. Stripped down to the skin, celestial energy spills freedom into seclusion with wild grace, poetry's spiralled existence blinks as reflection deals perception an ace, and abstract hallucinations find solace in the arms of intelligence. Eternity is explored in the swirl of a second, I am alive in the knowledge of silence, favourable smiles juggle this character as creation drips from artistic lips, painted by nature's travelling theatre. And I roll a poem across the floor, it spins for awhile then stops.
May 28, 2012A Wide-Eyed Rascal Individual imagination swerves across an eloquent expression, poetic thought juggles complexity with simplicity's creative angles, wordy wisdom tumbling through easy ways. A poet is: a wide-eyed street rascal who throws stones at passing cars as laughter gathers the night's suicide with cold nets, and middle aged women that blow kisses to strangers in bars while smoke rings billow. Composition strangles black and white life as birth wraps chords in slaps of existence, slaughtered sonnets and visual villanelles roam ghosts; chained to sexual desire, the wire of compassion in each of us. A dreamer suffocating in a world of intensity while the dead pen spins, where political correct winks then wanks humanity's twelve inch ego until... it spills personalities; fucked-up verse. I'm a poet! In an age of penny for your thoughts and inspiration's red eyes, a character that puts two fingers up then moves in closer to touch the tongue's curl, a fighter in a time of cowardice.
May 28, 2012Spontaneous Combustion Hair slices the peached parting - I stare at my reflection and laugh. Spontaneous combustion fires through thoughts as I check if my breath has any gas left in it. Pockets full of danger and old pieces of flesh, I jump through the closed window into the night - glass decorates dishevelled clothes and I reflect on who shall die this night. It might be me again - I don't know yet. The voice of self-abandonment cuts its wrists. Sexual harassment has intercourse with insipid personality as I grab a clump of weeds from the nearest garden - my love likes pretty things, I think and straighten my twitch in the dead dust of a wing-mirror's broken rusting. I think of shooting jackets and sickbays while spaghetti westerns roam the blood staining shoelaces - twisting with alive. Psychosomatic - my tidy desk staples memory into neat little sheets before photocopying drama. And there she is - my grave love: all polished with the tears I collected when she died in my arms.... More > Furious heartbeat screams at veins to slice into infinity, but I casually ignore the depths of anguish and wet myself. On my knees - I drag soil from the darkest cries, reach for my last... and spill malt liquor from my nose. Nearly there - I cough decay with pleasure, my erection bursting through sanity. Her stench is beautiful. Suddenly arms have me - lights pop and sirens mock. Faces whisper shouting words but I am not there anymore. I telephone history and receive instructions with imagery typing itself into a frail existence. Wild - I become death. I see cold metal rise towards my head as I fight my captors. The hole I look down catches my eye and smiles with a burst of light, I calmly wave at the remains of my beloved before the bullet caresses thoughts with pure powered flight.< Less
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- Standard Copyright License
- ian sawicki
- July 18, 2007
- Perfect-bound Paperback
- Interior Ink
- Black & white
- 0.74 lbs.
- Dimensions (inches)
- 6.14 wide x 9.21 tall
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