The Poetorialist
December 2011 Featured Poet

Ben Szwediuk

Ben Szwediuk
Ben Szwediuk's kinship with poetry began at an early age when his parents enrolled him in speech classes in his native Wales.  During this period he was drawn to the works of Spike Milligan and Edgar Allan Poe. This affinity waned during his teens years until he developed an interest in music and the lyricism of the likes of the late Richey Edwards of the Manic Street Preachers, and Morrissey of The Smiths. Their work led him to revolutionary socialist poetry and decadent nineteenth century writers respectively.

While studying for an MA in Film Studies at the International Film School Wales, he discovered many parallels between the art of cinema and poetry, and has since explored the transcendent principles consistent within both.

Currently working as a freelance writer and journalist in cinema and sport; he writes feature articles, reviews and blogs for a broad range of on and offline publications, as well as maintaining a personal blog. Ben produces and presents the most popular independent Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) podcast in the UK, called "Sweep the Leg", and he is currently working on the screenplay for his first feature film.

Ben Szwediuk's film and sports blog is available at Duke Media and the entirely free MMA podcast can be streamed and downloaded at
Screen-One. Ben Twitters at @dukemedia_uk

Baby's Blood

His goddess bathes in her baby’s blood;
oh, how purified she feels!
Washing away guilt and age,
her flawless vessel is ensured.

Thinner than the brightest stars-
23 inches- popularity retained.
Inglorious infanticide’s refuge
from cold judgments of the world.
Coward hunched ‘neath taboo’s shawl
and gilded by a mother’s crocodile tears.

Lines of love and worry slowly evaporate
as her bastard starves to eruption,
and before her stunning emerald eyes.
A chalice held to perfect thighs,
the red river of her iniquity flowing feely.
The nectar sates her thirst (for now),
until those haunted dreams, where pale white hands
are never clean.

His goddess bathes in baby’s blood;
oh, the purity she feels!
Until the broken painting
releases her monstrosity,
and her hands are finally clean.

This shouldn't, I dare say, have brought the ecstasies that came
This shouldn't, in the stormy night, left this dancing soul sane.

Nevertheless, in that heavy, sagging breast
the blade I drove- and by honesty she was finally blessed,
and with savagery of malediction
she felt her final pitying caress.

The glaze I now perceive, like each and every dream,
on each rare and transient sweep of the gallant lands of my sleep
At last that fire, a waking touch, blazes -
a delicate, cornucopian lust.

In the crimson shower I have now the right to bathe,
before death too makes me her slave.
And if what lied beyond be as those cartoon tales,
And if there be a soul to save,

I shall stand tall at the gates above
and claim that act of hate in the name of love
No shame or sin, shall I say,
to slaughter the raven to save the dove.

© Ben Szwediuk * 2011 * All Rights Reserved


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