Archive for the ‘La Poem’ Category

Charon for Daily Spitpaint by Sardine

The Ferryman’s Sovereign

By Manuel V. Derida, 1950

Reach not to your pocket for I want a sovereign and no more,

With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

Don’t need your name for a sovereign is the price of my Oar,

With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

Many a men and women have tried to cross this path before,
With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

They cried and wailed, “Oh, Ferryman take us to safety’s shore”
With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

Away from my boat or you shall taste my oar’s sway…away,
With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

Weep not and curse not what you have in life always yearned for,
With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

Favoring the yearning of the flesh you’ve neglected that of the soul,
With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

Man laments and bemoans the blows of fate only when he is forlorn,
With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

Alas, neither I, and nor you, know what the gods for us have in store,
With a breath so cold announced the Ferryman.

Without a sovereign and no more in this place you’ll toil evermore,
With a breath so old announced the Ferryman.

Art by Sardine a.k.a Mike V. Derderian (2014). 

Jeanne D'Arc

God is not at the tip of your tongue, he is also not in the bullet fired from your gun.

The reflection of his spirit does not float over the blade of your bloodied sword, he is also not in in the black enameled baton with which you beat the horde.

Your God is my God yet you turn him against me and everyone else with the words coming out of your sordid treacherous mouth.

Slice open your granite eyelids and see the spiritus sanctus before you bring down the house like the blind faltering Samson you are; betrayed by a scheming Delilah from afar.

Kafir you dare call me, and my brothers and sisters and everyone else Kofar. Shame on thee and on your promised eternity!

“Fie … fie!” cherubs at the foot of the throne wept and wept …


It has been a while since I wrote a poem; or what is deemed a poem. The first few lines came to my head 20 minutes ago and the rest just flowed.

I will probably expand this into a blog post that expresses my dismay over what is happening in the Middle East. I am deeply saddened that there are people out there, who actually dare outlaw harmony and love among the followers of God/Allah; the very same followers, from all religions, with whom I share bread, salt and oil on a daily basis.

Now back to the drawing board …

Illustration by Sardine a.k.a Mike V. Derderian

About illustration:

Been working on a action styled Mae West poster when I started drawing other stuff. The above illustration is one.

I am trying to limit myself to black and white lines since that will be the feel of some comics I am supposed to start working on once I get my engine running, especially my The Dark Side of the Spoon  that run for 20 issues in U Men magazine.

The poster tagline is taken from Carl Theodor Dreyer’s 1928 La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc.

Still haven’t drawn my Christmas greeting yet. On a personal level life is good. On an artistic level it is rather dark; I am trying to work on different themes with different styles and overall improve my work as an illustrator.

Thank you all for your wonderful Christmas wishes :-}) 


Consumed by emptiness I am,
A hallow man,

Awakened from life’s dream,
A sleepless man,

Burned by our eternal condition,
A mortal man,

Angered by God’s silence,
A soulless man,

Engrossed by earthly pleasures,
A sad man,

Silenced by the vicious howling,
A silent man,

Who shall save this damned soul?

Illustration, “Pan my love show thyself”, by Mike V. Derderian



She wasn’t beaten up by a coward of a brother,

Still her face had a hole in it.

She wasn’t an abused wife and mother,

Still her face had a hole in it.

Disheveled hair covered her empty stare,

Lifelike yet lifeless she stood there.


She wasn’t a daughter slaughtered by a bastard of a father,

Her face had a large hole in it.

A modern day Pygmalion would have wept her disfigured visage,

But a warm embrace would have been quite the scandalous vestige,

A man loving a mannequin!

There she stands,

Behind a crystal sheet, naked, forlorn and made out of plastic;

With a hole in her face.

Unattended and abused like many a real women in this world …

P.S: I felt the photograph that I Photoshoped from the original looked silly so I decided to use the original.

Photograph by Mike V. Derderian – Taken with a Sonny Ericsson W880i


Posted: August 2, 2011 in La Poem

Written on February 3, 2009

Warm wax dripped over his broad shoulders. It didn’t burn his chapped skin as much as it gave his naked body a tingling sensation. His hands clutched the wooden handles the same way an infant holds the hands of its mother.

His mother; he can barely remember her face.

He was getting closer. Touching the warm and holy visage was what he wanted to do from the moment he jumped over that cliff.

“I can make it,” he thought.

His father’s distant voice echoed in his weary mind, but the weight of his body that was pulling him down distracted him from grasping their meaning.

“A life without hope is like lying in a tomb without bothering to fight the gravedigger, who is hurling dirt over your shrouded face. I escaped my shroud. Here I am when all was lost, and will be no sooner I caress the noble features of this burning orb,” he said to himself.

Muscles painfully jolted and bones cracked but he kept on going, leaving behind a trail of feathers. The cogs attached to an iron plate on his back gave out a monotonous sound as they turned and turned. He was in much pain yet he never stopped. The leather straps that curved through his flesh, were now bound to the skin by layers of dried blood clots, through which warm red drops sifted like dew formulating over a perspiring leaf—the constant motion kept his wounds open and he was bleeding to death.

For a moment the white fleece of a cloud enshrouded his tired and bleeding frame, cooling his burning veins. Sweat trickling down from his wet hair reached the contours of furrowed forehead. Turning his head he saw his father again.

“He won’t reach me in time. Farewell sweet man. You who have carried me all my life,” the young man whispered in the direction of his bearded father, whose voice was hushed by the roaring wind.

“Zephyr is with me so worry not father. We’ll meet in the hereafter but first I have to cross the Dark Beyond. I can no longer see. Gentle and warm Helios let thy worm embrace guide me to your bosom,” he prayed with his eyes closed.

The leather straps attached to his wings were cracking and the rope that encircled both his arms reached the bone and was turning loose. Heavy tears streamed across his red cheeks. Blinded by the burning brightness the man, who was now guided by his ears, refused to stop, even as his blood streamed like a river heading to its watery deathbed to the sea-unchanging.

“Life never sounded so better,” was the final thought rushing through his head that went headlong into the icy water.

Broken feathers floated towards the moving surface. A voice from within the clouds bellowed, “Icarus…Icarus.”

The Slaughter House

Posted: September 11, 2009 in La Poem

The Slaughter House

Why are we being led to this ominous cold place,

So anxious they are walking to it with a fast pace,

Taking us there saying they are doing us a favor.

A man so kindly whispers in my ear: enough labor,

I ask what favor you call a knife slicing our veins,

After a lifetime of hard work engulfed in pains.

Alice is Little No More…

Posted: September 10, 2009 in La Poem

Alice is little no more…
Standing at the edge of a sidewalk in a secluded street,

Amidst a wonderland of lights and colors,

Someone she awaits…

Rushing cars blow her smooth hair into a giant mushroom-like-puff,

Where a caterpillar flung from an overhead tree momentarily resides,

She is free, or is she!

A bruised cat passes from under her feet,

With wide open arms she reaches down and holds it,

“Why are you so red, violet and blue? Whose markings are on your fur! What’s your name?” Petting the cat she inquires.

More or less the cat says nothing.

“Call me Alice. My name is the only thing about me that is true!” she whispers in its ear before sending it on its way.

Still someone she awaits…

In a concrete jungle, where a darkened sky, smothered gray trees, pale people and merciless animals barely coexist;

Little Alice was long ago lost.

Many a years have passed and she is little no more.

She is waiting for anyone,

Anyone with a few silver dollars to spare.

Hungry for food and shelter she sold the only thing she can sell and into sin fell.

She sees a man eying cell-phones on a cardboard at the corner of Broken Hearts,

With a wink the man shifts his eyes towards a larger catch,

As the silver dollar finds its way to her quivering palm lecherous hope rises and a broken heart sinks;

And they both disappear in a hidden alley.

Sadly all is lost when the Queen of Hearts arrives at dawn and takes away from her the night’s wealth,

“Back to work you…” The Queen of Hearts barks.

24 hours later and amidst a wonderland of lights and colors Alice again disappears.

Little she is no more…she is a…