IDEAS IN ABUNDANCE
The Madness of Richard Madoc
by
Tiel Aisha Ansari
Poems inspired by the story “Calliope”
in Neil Gaiman's Sandman
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 2011, Tiel Aisha Ansari
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“Calliope”
is the title of a story that appears as part of Neil Gaiman's ground-breaking comic Sandman, published by DC Comics between 1989 and 1996. In it, the Lord of Dreams and Master of Stories warns the writer Richard Madoc to release the muse Calliope, whom Madoc is holding prisoner and abusing for inspiration. Madoc complains that without Calliope he's a failure as a writer; he has no ideas of his own. “Ideas you will have,” says Morpheus. “IDEAS IN ABUNDANCE.”
I am grateful to Neil Gaiman for his generous permission to use these ideas stolen from Madoc's madness, but still more for the gift of stories.
partying against darkness
We party while it's getting dark. You know
that all the brightest young things gather here
because there's no place else for them to go
where they can be appreciated. So
important to be able to appear
at parties when it's getting dark, you know?
We're fever-moths and fireflies. We glow
and sparkle. Such a lively scene, my dear:
the only worthwhile place there is to go.
A masque of mummers, pantomime with no
libretto making mystery actions clear,
a party in the gathering dark. You know
that's really all that's left to us. Although
we try to hide the fact with hectic cheer,
there isn't any other place to go.
The curtain's risen on the final show
and closing time is on the clock, I fear.
We're partying against the dark. We know
there's simply no place left for us to go.
the fraternity of critics
Under the shuddering frames of the giant presses they gather for the rite. They are hooded like crows. They invoke the power of negation. Before dawn an author will die the critical death.
Brother, have you brought the books? I have.
Brother, have you brought the cover art? I have.
Brother, have you brought the Black Index? I have.
Dry paper is our only food. Eat.
Red ink is the source of our power. Drink.
Vinegar sanctifies our commentary. Wash.
We who are faithful; we who are the guardians; we who stand at the gates are gathered here in the name of Literature.
We pledge to uphold the boundaries of fine writing and the exclusivity of the canon.
We deny the encroachments of genre fiction and the pretensions of graphic media.
We affirm that the modern novel is the highest form of Creation.
Let us review.
In the category of creative nonfiction. This memoir is soulless and reductive. The author appears to have spent his entire life turning over stones and listening to the radio noise of distant stars. We dedicate this sacrifice to the altar of Science Contributes Nothing to Civilization.
In the category of poetry. Mere gaudiness of language wrapped around a reluctance to confront the essential ugliness of self. Outdated romanticism and trendy eco-consciousness. We dedicate this sacrifice to the altar of Poetry Should be About Poetry.
In the category of history. A populist revision that grinds the axe of inclusionism against the stone of empire. The citations list makes for tedious reading indeed. We dedicate this sacrifice to the altar of History Must Serve the Needs of Today.
Brothers, rise for the final critique.
In the category of the novel. Ridiculously ornate language frames an impossible tale set in foolishly picturesque surroundings. The book postulates, absurdly, that time is circular and may be compared to a mythical animal. Submerged homoerotic currents lend interest to a narrative otherwise devoid of transgressive consciousness. We dedicate this sacrifice to the altar of Art Imitates Life.
We hereby judge these books unworthy. Let the covers be burned. Let the titles be inscribed in the Black Index. Yea, let even the New York Review of Books print nothing good anent them. Brothers, go forth and write unfavorable reviews of these books forever and ever, amen.
a city in which the streets are paved with time
An old man is fishing from the kerb.
He drops his net into a pothole
and pulls up a baby shoe
that somehow fits his gnarled foot.
Tomorrow's rain is already filling the gutters.
A cobblestone yawns
and coughs up a flight of brilliant butterflies
that have been extinct for ten centuries.
Don't step into the street--
the time differential can kill you.
Jump. Both feet together
and hope they land in the same era.
a train full of silent women plowing forever through the night
A train of silent women rumbles through the night.
They do not speak. They do not move. They stare ahead
like statues waiting for museum staff to write
"A train of silent women rumbles through the night"
upon a plinth, around a painting's frame. They might
be ghosts. They might be refugees. They might be dead
or lost in space-time. Child or crone or maidenhead,
they do not speak. They do not move. They stare ahead
like eyeless skulls that watch from shadows under beds.
Like every silent witness dead of love or fright,
they do not speak. They do not move. They stare ahead,
the train of silent women rumbling through the night.
heads made of light
God made Heaven
and then the sky. Because the underside
of Heaven looked untidy,
with the dusty rafters all exposed.
He nailed it up, the sky
and the heads of the nails were made of light.
We call them stars.
a small piece of blue cardboard
A postcard full of sky. How odd a thing
to sell: no rainbows, birds upon the wing
or even colored clouds. Just plain and blue,
serene-- or maybe vacant. Tell me who
would think it was appropriate to ring
a tongueless bell to call a christening,
or come with laryngitis to a sing-
along? It seems an insult, sending you
a postcard full of sky.
I take it from the rack, considering
a figure-ground exchange, an opening
of eyes to subtler shades. I see it true:
a heaven infinite, unwritten, new.
Next time I'm with you, love, I think I'll bring
a postcard full of sky.
a plum, sweet and tart and cold
--in response to Williams' "This Is Just To Say"
Yes I know they were
sweet and cold
dark as the flesh of my lips
and I'm very tempted
to make some joke
about "plumming the depths"
like a line from
a poorly considered poem
but this is just to say
the truth is I wanted you to
eat those plums
tart as I am
a were-goldfish who transforms into a wolf at full moon
I heard something terrible happened to the family next door.
There were cops all around the house this morning. Yellow tape, and that.
I heard screams last night.
No, that was the movie that was on.
I heard there was blood everywhere.
You can't believe everything you hear. It was a full moon after all. Silly season.
But something really happened to that family?
I invited the sister in for coffee. They had to go and identify the bodies.
Oh, how awful.
There was nothing left but the goldfish.
I didn't know they had a goldfish.
They just got it last week.
I heard the cops were stumped.
How would you know that?
Something really awful must have happened.
Who's going to take
care of their house?
Who's going to take care of the goldfish?
Hey, I'll bet it's a killer goldfish.
How can you joke about this? It's dreadful. The whole family.
No, seriously. Goldfish could be like sharks. They go crazy when they smell blood.
But only at the full moon.
Now that's just dumb. Goldfish?
Where'd they get it, anyway?
The kid brought it home from the carnival. He won it as a prize.
What carnival?
Out at the
fairground?
I didn't hear there was a carnival.
Neither did I,
but that's where he got it. According to the sister.
My brother-in-law is on the town council and he never said anything about a carnival. I mean, they'd have to have a permit and everything.
Maybe it was a ghost carnival.
An evil carnival that gives away were-goldfish.
Goldfish that turn into wolves when the moon's full, and kill everything in sight.
Well I don't know about you but I'm not adopting anyone's pet fish.
Me neither.
Me neither.
You never know.
two old women taking a weasel on holiday
The blue-hairs crowd the boardwalk
enjoying the late summer sun
after school starts up. They chatter about
discount fares and room service.
They buy ice cream and candy from my cart.
The two with the weasel-- yeah, I know it's weird
but a pet's a pet, I guess. They're staying
in a non-smoke-free motel
not because it's cheaper, but because
(according to the shorter one) the smell
of stale smoke reminds them
of dear departed Harry.
Who's he? Husband, brother, son
to one or the other, I don't know
even if they're sisters or just friends.
A sugar-cone of bubble-gum for one, the other
wants blackberry swirl on waffle.
They turn away, the goods in hand
tugging on the leash. "C'mon, Harry."
gryphons shouldn't marry
Eagles are monogamous for life--
lions, not so much. The half-and-halfs,
the gryphons, really shouldn't take a wife
or husband. "Marriage isn't just for laughs!"
declares the head. The eagle parts decide
on matrimonial exclusiveness
but lion rumps insist upon their pride.
The private lives of gryphons are a mess.
Philosophers and moralists agree
that intellect is seated in the head
and passion should obey the brain's decree.
But as for gryphons... well, it must be said:
however virtuous the front appears,
the job of mating is left to the rears.
vampires don't dance
because-- they say-- their hearts don't beat, and so
they can't keep rhythm, can't stay in the groove.
The music starts, but they're too stiff to move.
Instead they swish their capes and make a show
of dangerousness. They flash a fang. They drool
in drops of scarlet (wearing black of course).
Embarrassment can kill them, but remorse
is not a vampire thing: it's just not cool.
Their sex appeal is limited, I fear.
Despite the loads of tawdry bloodstained bling
they tend to sport-- if you can't shake that thing--
well, who'd be interested? That's why you'll hear
that they resort to some hypnotic trance.
Pretentious suckers! Too stuck-up to dance.
a man who inherits a library card to the library in Alexandria
a rose bush, a nightingale and a black rubber dog-collar
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood."-- The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde
The nightingale is dead. The perfect rose
that blossomed crimson as a tongue of fire
dissolves the coolness that is her pose,
unleashes unacceptable desire.
She wants a doggy tongue between her thighs
to blossom crimson as a tongue of fire.
He plays her pet. It comes as no surprise
that dominance and bondage are her games,
that she wants doggy tongue between her thighs.
She puts a rubber collar on him, names
him Fido-- fit name for a canine stud,
for decadence and bondage are her games.
She takes the gift he brought, the rose of blood,
inserts it in the rubber collar's notch,
"Here, Fido," fits it on her canine stud.
He doesn't care, while nosing at her crotch,
the nightingale is dead. The perfect rose
inserted in the collar's final notch
destroys the coolness that was her pose.
a man who falls in love with a paper doll
Her skin is smooth and white. Her eyes are black
as coal or kohl or pencil-lead. Her hair
is never disarranged. She doesn't lack
for style or self-assurance. To be fair,
her conversation's... thin. But she's my girl--
my darling babe, my Valentine, my doll.
No sudden, unexpected depths unfurl
among the close-packed fibers of her soul,
no pitfalls on the path of love. It's sweet
to know there are no ghosts, no restless dead
to squeak or gibber in this linen sheet.
Malicious tongues, I must admit, have said
she's superficial, shallow. Pooh to that!
Romance is no less perfect, being flat.
the sun setting over the Parthenon
circle poised against
triangular pediment
perfect geometry
shark's teeth soup
A strange and nameless malady
that sages cannot diagnose
has struck the king of Serendip.
This monarch suffers terribly:
in pain, he cannot find repose.
His sunken eye and swollen lip
but hint at royal agony.
He bleeds at every fingertip
and pus comes from his nailless toes.
A wanderer with staff and bowl
and shaven head has come to court
to witness this unhappy thing.
The queen commands this humble soul
to render aid of any sort
to end her husband's suffering.
He kneels before her throne. "Your goal
is medicine to help the King?
Here is the cure of last resort.
"Send fishermen to catch a shark
and kill it, bringing you the teeth.
You must make soup from them. And know:
your hand alone may set the spark
to light the fire underneath
the cooking pot. Keep boiling slow
until the broth turns thick and dark.
Then stoke the fire that burns below
and let him drink it at the seethe.
"Attend, O Queen of Serendip!
The power of this remedy
can kill in an unwary dose.
See that he only takes one sip
or all the consequence will be
upon your head." The beggar bows.
The queen arises, hand on hip
and offers any price he asks. He knows
he's fortunate to be set free.
The shark's teeth soup is boiling hot.
The king has sipped it once-- he sighs.
"It's better... but I still feel ill.
If little helps, perhaps a lot
would cure for good." The queen replies
"My King, this
medicine can kill!
The traveler warned me you must not
take more than one sip." "Drink your fill,
O King!" come unexpected cries.
"Who would withhold the gift of health
from you, O Majesty? 'Tis but
an act against the royal life
disguised as care. She seeks, by stealth
and tricks of poisoners, to cut
your thread, as with assassin's knife!
She claims your throne and all your wealth.
O Majesty, suspect your
wife!"
Suspicion clutches at his gut.
He drinks. A single steaming drip
falls from the spoon, and silently
he feels the power as it goes
out from his limbs, his palsied grip.
He cannot stand, sinks to one knee
and on his face the darkness grows.
The stricken king of Serendip
now hears the stranger's voice. "You chose
Death over Life, your Majesty."
an old man in Sunderland who owns the universe and keeps it in a jam-jar in the dusty cupboard under the stairs
Here I sit watching dust fall on my jar
falling in endless curtains between the cradles
of new stars burning the universe to ash
here at the mouth of the river Wear
in the land of Sunder, county of Entropy.
Here I sit with the universe in a jar--
actually, just the center. The rest unfolds
away from the rim like an umbrella
from its handle. In my hand.
The edges flap in the breeze.
Now and then an extra-strong gust
of unreality will turn the whole thing
inside out and leave me
squirming inside the jar-- but then
I can usually pop it back right way round.
You people never notice.
a sestina about silence using the keywords dark, ragged, never, screaming, fire, kiss
You know very well you should never
just wad up a handful of oily rags
and leave them in a closet, in the dark.
Claim you were distracted by a kiss
from a lover or a baby's scream,
but the fact remains, you started a fire.
Now the city is full of racing fires
and the department says they'll never
catch up. You can hear the sirens scream
as the crews run themselves ragged.
Civic life-- well, you can kiss
that goodbye for now. The city's dark
except for flames. It's like a new Dark
Age: Europe's map dotted with fires,
plagues and invasions, the kisses
of death for previous empires. Never
expect anything to last: rags
clothe descendants of Caesars, screams
are swallowed by silence. Your screams
are stifled in the encroaching darkness.
The inside of your throat is ragged
with smoke inhalation. You're dying by fire.
Dawn may come someday, but you'll never
see the long grass quiver to its kiss.
The only sound now is flames kissing
trembling buildings. Imagine how they scream
knowing they're doomed to never
be inhabited. Windows like darkened
eyes bruised by the black hands of fire,
edged with broken-glass raggedness.
As if you'd stuffed your ears with rags
silence comes, welcome as a kiss.
You can no longer hear the roar of the fires
and distance destroys the sound of screaming
people fleeing into burning darkness.
Your city will rise from the ashes--never.
The liquid kiss of approaching darkness
quenches the ragged red blanket of fire.
There will never be any more screaming.
a biography of Keats from the lamia's viewpoint
Apprentice surgeon, student at the Guy
where he was dresser; where he caught my eye.
Something about his hands-- his face-- bespoke
perceptions more than normal. I awoke
his intellect, his passion. What a plan
I had for Keats, that troubled child of man!
Each day he labored underneath my sign:
caduceus of Hermes, wand divine.
I filled his dreams with serpents twined in pairs
like strands of protein helixed into hairs.
I made him mad with wanting Truth. The tools
for finding it were then at hand: the rules
of logic and experiment were known.
He worked his hands in blood and guts and bone
each day, deep-anchored in reality
and human need. I meant for him to be
a leader of the coming generation:
seekers after knowledge who would fashion
vasty temples in the human mind.
His creativity, released, would find
cures for the illnesses that filled the Guy's
bleak corridors with pain and hopeless eyes.
You find it odd that I, a thing of Myth
would want to speed the march of Science with
a pair of hands like his? But genius
follows the Psychopomp's caduceus
wherever it may lead. I was his muse:
his field of expertise was mine to choose.
I looked ahead to ages that would name
my kin as legends, stories meant to tame
the ignorant chaos of the youthful race.
I saw that glory written on his face:
a torch to light the turning of the page
a hero of the new Promethean age!
I showed him how to read the saraband
of base-pairs on a chromosomal strand,
those variations infinite on cosmic themes.
These were the "Lamiae" that fed his dreams.
This secret, gravid with revelation,
this model of divine recombination,
meiosis symbolized by twining snakes--
but see what use of it the poet makes!
He turns it to poetical caprice
with Science as the villain of the piece!
That's how he chose to write my story down:
John Keats, who could have garnered Darwin's crown.
magical and alchemical traditions seen as a cargo cult
Nigredo (Putrefactio)
I tell you there's no such thing as a flying saucer
crewed by aliens. I've seen aliens.
They travel in curious copper vessels
with crooked necks. Not saucers.
What did they look like? That's hard to say.
They tended to... disperse... and then rejoin
solve et coagula. Like slime-molds, actually.
And then you couldn't be sure if you were talking
to the same one, or a new individual
with the same memories. I guess they live forever.
Albedo
They crawl through twisting glass pipes
inside their ships. There's always water dripping.
I guess they're from some place more humid--
maybe Venus? They wouldn't say.
To them our whole planet's a desert.
They come here to meditate like stylites
in the thin dry air. It clears their minds, they say
though they have to be careful about dehydration.
Citrinitas
And apparently their ships run
entirely off sunlight! Or some kind of
radiant power-- I wasn't completely clear--
anyway the engines are brilliant, dazzling.
Brighter than a thousand torches.
Gold. They talked about gold
and about turning metals into other metals
but I don't know how, exactly.
Rubedo
I watched the ship take off. Maybe
I was standing too close? I feel kind of flushed.
They said they'd come back. I swear.
They said they'd come-- if I wanted to go--
they'd take me along. Into the light.
No, I'm not feverish or babbling--
I'm just a little hot--
I'll see the universe. I'll live forever. Get me
a copper pot... it has to be the right shape...
some coiled glass tubes...
I'm gone.
Aureolus Theophrastus Paracelsus Bombastes and Raymond Lulli were the same man
This is what I learned when I was Lull:
the infinite heavens are made up of
turning wheels. Every man's name inscribed
around the rim of one. Yours. Mine,
turning, intersect. We meet. There are consequences
or not. We keep turning until death.
This is what I learned: to write
using the Alphabet of the Magi, another name
upon another wheel. To win extra turns as a new man,
Paracelsus of Hohenheim.
Listen to the song of the axles. It is art, not science.
My characters, the letters that would redefine me,
I sent forth into the void, only guessing
where they might land. I made them.
I am what they made me; I forget what I was.
About the Author
Tiel Aisha Ansari is a Sufi, martial artist, and data analyst living in the Pacific Northwest.
Her work has been presented in print, online, and on the radio. She is the author of the collection Knocking from Inside, available from Ecstatic Exchange. You can visit her at http://knockingfrominside.blogspot.com