Flash Poem: Reruns by Maddie G

Posted by Maddie on November 17, 2011 at 9:45 PM Comments comments (29)

Reruns by Maddie G

Forever is felt this way.

The drum regulates the rhythm

A thought in every beat

And reminder in repeat. 

 I can't help but feel like the sky.

Towering over a city of lights

Pierced by skyscrapers' grandeur;

Memories are the backdrop of 

My very own reality TV show.

A rerun disguised.

Probably the fate of my demise.

Chinese Poems by Kristen G (My sister was inspired by my flash poetry)

Posted by Maddie on November 15, 2011 at 10:50 PM Comments comments (6)









Friends come here,

Play with me.

We are happy,

It is fun.

Hello everybody.









The sun rises.

I go play in the park.

In the park there are trees.

In the trees, there are birds.

I say, “Hello.”










I woke up,

And ate breakfast.

Under the tree there are presents.

On the tree there are little lights.

The whole family goes to sleep.









The whole world has water.

I look out from my window,

And see a river.

In the river, there are red fish.

I feel at home.









Everyday I learn,

I learn a lot

School is in my head

I learn how to live.










There is a book on the desk.

I want to live in the book.

It’s pretty and happy.

I love the book’s people,

I love the book’s trees.

But, I can’t go.












The winter has gone home,

Now there are not cold winds.

I went outside to walk,

And saw a little tree.

Everyday I saw it,

Before there were no flowers,

Now there are white flowers.









I hear a song

Blowing in the wind.

The flowers sing songs,

Songs of reawakening.




没有绿树, 没有花.





I look up at the sky,

I think, “Today the world is sad.”

There are no green trees, no flowers.

Only ghosts.

Corpses are falling to the earth.









The wind has blown away children’s laughter.

Vultures circle my head.

A tear falls into the ocean,

I will find it when summer comes.







My hand is like a graveyard.

The lines of my palm tell the story of my past.





Flash Poem: Empowerment by Maddie G

Posted by Maddie on November 7, 2011 at 9:45 PM Comments comments (3)

Empowerment by Maddie G

A third world is shattered

 But we wear 2D glasses.

We own mirrors in our homes too.

For the first time

I listened. I listened to

this motivational speaker

whose speech resonated with my hopes

but pulled it out in front to me, so I could see.

A third world is shattered

But we wear 2D glasses.

We own mirrors in our homes too.

For the first time, 

I noticed that this smile 

is a leap out of frustration 

and into change.

A third world is shattered

But we wear 2D glasses. 

We own mirrors in our homes too.

For the first time,

I feel that change is around us

People are doing

People are speaking 

People are hearing.

Alarm clocks have gone off

They are well into their second cup of coffee.

One person is enough.


A third world is shattered

And we wear 3D glasses--

This is what Innovation over time does.

We own mirrors in our homes three.

Inspired by a motivational speaker of , Seth, who spoke at our school today.

Flash Poem: Waiting By Maddie G

Posted by Maddie on November 6, 2011 at 9:15 PM Comments comments (1)


The lights

are blinding. 

A tug of war

pulling at the chest,

From the North and South poles

Falling a long way down

Or inching closer to the clouds--

The darkness is blinding:

A shot in the dark.

Knowing what's vertical, not horizontal.

A gun to the chest. 

A spinning compass, spinning questions, non-negotiable answers.

The answer lies in a directionless somewhere.

Just waiting to hear the echo of the trigger.

No edits, merely a stream of consciousness type of writing tonight--raw. Completed in 3 minutes. 


Maddie G

Flash Poem by Maddie G: The Physics of Motivation

Posted by Maddie on November 4, 2011 at 1:40 AM Comments comments (19)

The Physics of Motivation (Inspired by physics classes on friction and acceleration) Written in 3 minutes.

Tires create treds

Like she leaves a mark

On her path.

The added acceleration--

When no car is in sight: no cones, no traffic

Like the clench of a fist--

The tug of rope in war...

Just the grip of the tire to the ground.

Moving forward Pressing down Pushing back

Flash poetry is the best when you want to write a poem but you are tired enough that the idea of writing a long poem is unattainable. The best strategy (my personal strategy) is to write a poem at 2 am or later--the later the better-- and get images, themes, ideas, words all out onto a Flash poem. (notice that it is 1:40 am right now) Tomorrow morning, first thing when you wake up, revise, revise, revise. Add more if desired, cut words if necessary, and voila! You've got yourself a raw poem inspired by a flash poem. I find that I don't have much time to spare now that I'm in the midst of the college process. Here is how my poems still remain genuine, yet require less time. I encourage you to write a flash poem yourself, and use your seeds of spontaneous ideas and craft it into a masterpiece.

Let me know how this works for you! Comment below or email me at Looking foward to reading your flash poetry!


Flash Poem Inspired by Shakespeare's Macbeth

Posted by Maddie on November 2, 2011 at 12:50 AM Comments comments (8)

Shedding by Maddie G

Shedding secrets like washing hands.

Scrub between the webs of fingers--

Intricate webs of secrets do reveal

Another perspective that we do feel. 

Written in under 2 minutes.



"Twenty" by Maddie G: A Flash Essay

Posted by Maddie on October 22, 2011 at 1:40 PM Comments comments (1)

“Twenty” by Maddie G

Living a mile away from my school, I start my weekdays with a twenty-minute walk on the fast-paced streets of Manhattan’s New York City. Each morning, I follow the same mental and physical routine: I navigate the streets with my eye for safety and my mind for reflecting. I wake up ten minutes later than my friends and I walk alone. I prefer my own morning schedule.

The second I leave my building’s lobby, I am sucked into a culture where jaywalking is not enough to save time. I pass business professionals checking newspapers to catch up on overnight news, mothers dragging young ones to school, and students studying flashcards for their tests later that day. There is no time: everyone is preparing for what lies ahead. The future is the new present. When I walk to school, each person I make eye contact with is focused on catching up— speed becomes skewed and the passage of time is his worst enemy. I isolate myself from this morning dash. I enjoy walking at my own unruffled stride even though I usually end up subconsciously mimicking the speed of the surrounding New Yorkers two minutes in. I call this alone time my “restorative twenty.”

Glancing around, the surrounding mass of people are on moving walkways zipping past me. Each person has a purpose and I’m anxious I won’t fulfill mine because I chose wake up ten minutes later and walk slower. My twenty-minute walk holds the same purpose as the twenty minutes I lie awake in bed and stare at the ceiling after a long day before dancing into a deep deserved sleep. I start to feel like my identity is just a photocopy of the classmate next to me. We even look the same. My school requires uniforms. Growing up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan brings a whole new set of standards; the small privileged community lacks the diversity needed to destroy assumptions. That is why my walk to school is the temporary time slot my guard is completely down and my individuality is exposed to the convoluted mess of people we live to please.

Here is a glimpse into my daily life. Hope this inspires you to go write a new piece!


The Ferris Wheel By Maddie G

Posted by Maddie on October 18, 2011 at 4:35 PM Comments comments (1)

The Ferris Wheel

Mom said you could see Saturn from the zenith.

Dad said the ride makes you a man.

I can't speak to it—

…But I've been on carousels before.

The sun was setting behind him,

The rays gleamed out from his head at all angles

Like He walked out of the Renaissance:

Gioto's The Adoration of the Magi,

He stopped me and accepted my golden ticket.

Impossible, He said “You can only ride the Ferris Wheel

Once. Other kids want their turn too."

But I know he can ride whenever he wants.

He controls the buttons.

I ascend into the pastel sky,

Steady and restless

Energetic and unknowing,

I can see my entire childhood down there— I always looked up.

The cart in front of me seats two elders.

Each inch farther from the ground is one inch closer.

I'm waiting to reach the peak.

Where's Saturn?

I'm still looking up.

But then a voice: "Yo kid, I ain't got all day."

This was originally a flash poem. The Ferris Wheel received extensive edits, however the idea continues to be the foundation of the poem.



Flash Poetry? First Thought, Best Thought?

Posted by Maddie on October 1, 2011 at 8:15 PM Comments comments (1)

"First Thought, Best Thought" by William DeresiewiczWilliam Deresiewicz teaches English at Yale University. He is working on a study of Jane Austen and the British Romantic poets.

These interviews with Allen Ginsberg remind us that he was a master of improvisation. 


What an irony ''Spontaneous Mind'' represents. Allen Ginsberg's uniquely frank and vivid voice, silent now these past four years, seems to sound again in its deftly edited pages. Yet if anyone knew the difference between printed text and living speech, it was the poet who made immediacy -- improvisation, bodily presence, a Buddhistic immersion in the passing moment -- the foundation of his art. Indeed, there's a wider irony at work, for with the death this year of Gregory Corso, the last of the movement's major figures, the Beat Generation has essentially become what it forever more will always only be: words on a page. Ginsberg's embrace of immediacy was the Beats' as a whole, was in fact the common denominator of the most vital currents in postwar American art -- Gillespie and Parker, de Kooning and Pollock, Cunningham and Cage: a risk-seeking, ecstatic spontaneity flung in the face of the cold war mentality. And as the mainstream tilted ever more toward media and mediation, the filtrations of the glass screen, the ethic of immediacy -- happenings, be-ins, protests, street theater; the million jam sessions and acid tests of the 60's -- became the Beats' great bequest to the counterculture they inspired. How alien it all seems, in this age of mediation's terminal triumph.


''Life should be ecstasy,'' Ginsberg says here, and poetry, he implies, should be life. His poetics was shaped by an adolescent encounter with Williams and Pound, their rejection of what he called the metronomic ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum of iambic pentameter for the flexible, complex rhythms of everyday speech. As informed by his later discovery of Buddhist meditation practice, this recognition led to the idea of poetry as breath, an emanation of the body as much as of the mind (one reason he gave, and attended, so many readings). Indeed, Buddhism taught him to eschew rationality in favor of ''ordinary'' or ''spontaneous'' mind, the vast sea of consciousness upon which our concepts and categories, anxieties and prohibitions, float like so much junk. Hence Ginsberg's compositional method, the moment-by-moment transcription of thoughts and images as they passed across his mind. (The thousand-odd lines of ''Kaddish'' poured forth in one 40-hour session.) ''First thought, best thought'' was his governing principle: no heed to the high-modernist idea of poem as patiently constructed artifact, but an equally strenuous discipline, for it was only with hours of daily meditation that he maintained his wide-open path from mind to breath.

All of which helps explain why the interviews collected here are so great. Ginsberg talking is like Charlie Parker taking his saxophone out for a spin at the far reaches of harmony and rhythm; reading him is the mental equivalent of being driven at top speed down a winding mountain road. Long lines of thought unspool in image after startling image, gradually weaving themselves into argumentative structures of stunning density, originality and depth. And like any great jazzman, Ginsberg displays a multitude of musical personalities: ecstatic bard, wrathful prophet, serene yogi, patient teacher, ironic Jewish stand-up comedian. For like any great performer, he reveals himself in full -- self-critically, self-mockingly, with all his shortcomings, kinks and contradictions.

The candor and passion are to be expected, but the stereotype of Ginsberg as a semiliterate primitive leaves one unprepared for his erudition and intellectual brilliance. A question about his youthful discovery of Cézanne elicits six long pages on the transcendental implications of the painter's ostensibly workmanlike notation of optical phenomena, and the relevance of those implications to Blake, haiku and the composition of ''Howl.'' Elsewhere, belying dismissals of the Beats as willfully ignorant of literary history, Ginsberg details the ways the movement placed itself within both American and modernist traditions, as well as within the mystical tradition that leads back through Gnosticism to the ancient mystery cults. Other passages remind us of the courage and prescience of the man who was proudly, publicly gay over a decade before the Stonewall uprising. We find him talking about global warming in 1968. Above all, we find him continually challenging settled ideas, especially his own. Yes, as a 1976 interview shows, he eventually questioned some attitudes of the 60's left, but the fact is that, as we see in a 1963 interview, he questioned many of them almost before there was a 60's left.

Much credit for the shapeliness of this collection is due to David Carter's editorial labors. Its 30 selections were chosen from among some 352 assembled transcripts, and while Ginsberg always insisted that his responses be published without line-by-line revision (of course), Carter's larger abridgments are both inconspicuous and cunning. Many encounters that probably petered out toward their close are concluded here on a memorable cadence or turn of wit. There is also remarkably little repetition; indeed, Carter, who is working on a history of Stonewall, contrives to have successive interviews fill in different parts of the same topic -- Ginsberg's early life or musical projects or ideas about drugs -- so that each of these pictures gradually takes shape over the course of the volume.

One overarching picture takes shape as well, that of Ginsberg's career as a public figure. The bulk of the collection dates from 1965-72, Ginsberg's years as countercultural symbol and spokesman: dialogues at demonstrations and on the road, transcripts from ''Firing Line'' and the Chicago Seven trial. One of the most interesting things about these encounters is how successful Ginsberg is at circumventing the logic of celebrity -- in other words, the very premise of the interview itself. Just as he never let himself get stuck in an intellectual position, neither did he allow himself to be trapped in an image. Each interviewer tries to elicit the Ginsberg of his or her imagination -- William F. Buckley Jr., the dangerous radical; Playboy, the homosexual crusader; fellow dropouts, the mocker of squares -- and each time, Ginsberg performs judo flips on their expectations, handing back complex, nuanced versions of the attitudes with which they've tried to saddle him. Indeed, he helps us appreciate the great difference between a celebrity and a public figure -- one the creation of the media, the other a full human character seeking to act within the public sphere -- as well as why we don't really have any of the latter anymore.


There may no longer be anyone in America like Allen Ginsberg, but America is not the same for his having been here. Readers of this collection may also find that they are no longer the same after having encountered him in its pages. His breath is stilled, his voice literally silenced, but the converse of Auden's dictum is also true: the guts of the living are modified by the words of the dead.

#micropoetry #twitter #loveit @cheeseandpoetry

Posted by Maddie on August 16, 2011 at 12:15 AM Comments comments (1)

After using twitter extensively now, I have found a love for #micropoetry. Twitter, micropoetry, tweeting, retweeting, and following... #loveit. I have been following many small farms all around the world, cheese mongers, small cheese stores, poets etc. 

After seeing that #micropoetry was trending, I thought I would write my own. 

For those of you who are missing out on #twitter, here is what #micropoetry is. It's a poem in 120 characters or less, which also includes the dashes, spaces, and slashes. 

Here is my first micro poem. 

Sleep on the subway / Dream in numbers / Let a thousand flowers bloom.

What do you think? Post your own micro poetry here in the comment section below, email me at OR TWEET IT TO @cheeseandpoetry. That would be most appropriate!


August Acrostic Poem: August

Posted by Maddie on August 5, 2011 at 11:45 AM Comments comments (1)

All the best things seem

Unappreciated, understated when that

Gust of wind you used an

Umbrella to 


Tingles your presence



An Acrostic Poem For July: A Dash Across the Street

Posted by Maddie on July 1, 2011 at 8:25 AM Comments comments (31)

Flash Poem + Acrostic Poem: A Dash Across the Street

J-skip: Who wants to be one of the many any way?

Undress the white that designates crosswalks. All the same.

Linger in the lime, light the tangled path.

Yesterday already dimmed. Did you notice?

Inspired by a dash across the street.