Ian Uriel Girdley
Biography of Ian Uriel Girdley
Ian Uriel Girdley was born in a commune in Southern Indiana, but was raised in Owensburg, a small town within spitting distance from Bloomington, Indiana, where he made his adult home or lived homeless from 1998 to 2007. He started writing poetry in 2003 after reading “Dharma Bums” by Jack Kerouac, and soon began participating in many events and facets of Bloomington's rich poetry scene. He now lives in Jeffersonville, Indiana with his fiancee' and a roommate where he continues to write poetry, and, more recently, short fiction. He founded and currently runs a group called Syzygy which promotes poetry, music, and the arts in Southern Indiana He is self-employed as a free-lance writer and makes absolutely no money. He is happy, nonetheless, as long as he has cigarettes to smoke, a pen and paper to write, and some bourbon from time to time to sip on. Besides writing and organizing poetry events, he spends his time trying to avoid police officers and spends his evenings playing scrabble with his fiancee'. Ian has poems published in 'Fine Wine Mortar' and 'A Cocoon for the Pages', two anthologies published by Matrix Literary Arts Organization, Decomp Online Literary Magazine, and the Louisville Eccentric Observer. He has four self-published poetry chapbooks, three of which he offers free as downloadable e-books at http: //ianurielgirdley.livejournal.com.
Ian Uriel Girdley's Works:
lady firecracker i am drunk (2007)
sleeping in elevators (2007)
Broken Candy cigarettes (2005)
Haiku and Other Shorts (2005)
Ian Uriel Girdley Poems
We Are Larger Than The Atom
As the universe expands we grow smaller into the more infinite with no inclination that our perceptions may be inverse
I used to think it was a genie bottle, whose contents lifted my head into a dreamy world of clouds, buzz is a good word for the tingling lack of sensation,
The Skinny Girl
She was beautiful but as big as a twig, I thought-waif-like angel won't you eat, I imagine I might crush you if we get the chance to roll around in dirty sheets.
Lonesome Winter Blues
I put two fingers to my lips burnt by winter oh how she used to love how softly my lips felt on hers.
A Fallen Maple
My hand brushes across a branch fondling the leaves like
I used to think it was a genie bottle,
whose contents lifted my head into a dreamy world of clouds,
buzz is a good word for the tingling lack of sensation,
my head falls back on its own,
like my head was in love,
this would have been my first wish.