::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum: 04.17.09 :::

(Alone at the Bar by Tom Harding, one of our mad swirlin' resident artists in the Mad Gallery)

"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." Carl Sandburg

Hello our fellow mad ones and welcome to our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum. We have collected poetry from the maddest poets from the maddest corners of the world and have showcased them here in the Forum just for you. The Poetry Forum is in flux, living and breathing, evolving and changing constantly...so please come by and come by often for the latest swirling additions!

OUT OF THE STORM

Out of the storm, the little man emerges,
searching the snow-covered park for a
park bench or gazebo or any unoccupied
spot to call home.

Like a magus suddenly appearing out of
nowhere, the stranger seems to come out
of the eye of the storm,

released from the womb of the blizzard, a
child being born into his earthly existence.

And now, beneath the fierce, flowing
whiteness that engulfs him, almost
swallowing his fugitive soul,

he prays silently to the Beyond
and the Within, grasping faith

in the Nothingness, a whirling
ball of emptiness in which one
is consumed and then resurrected
before vanishing into dust.

Mel Waldman

(3 poems added 04.17.09)

The Refugees outside Victoria Station, London

They watch the road
for their bus
like hares looking
out for predators.

Instantly recognisable
with their four dollar
haircuts and charity shop
clothes, they shy away

from the looks of tourists
and sniggering teenagers.
They cannot hide behind
the feint smell of almonds

and angelica that accompanies
them, nor the hajib and burka.
The sight of their stomachs
bare as cupboards, impossible

to disguise. Summer is hellish
for them, their limbs dangling
like unwanted accessories from
their bodies, batting the sound

of swinging doors as if they were
mosquitoes.

Christian Ward

(3 poems added 04.16.09)

Clarity

Obfuscate,
obliterate;
obscure the meaning
with flowery phrases
and reckless referrals
then give them a shovel.

They’ll dig it...

Partition
each participle;
dangle words
in front of their noses,
don’t give them
a scent,
show them
a fragrance.

Have a whiff...

It’s not that
I want to leave
you blind,
I’m trying to make you
polish
your lenses.
Open your eyes,
use all your senses.

Two dollars on Eureka in the sixth...

I swear I will always
tell the truth,
but I won’t
always say
what I mean.

Rose Morales

(2 poems added 04.15.09)

My work here is through

Snatched the switchblade outta the medicine cabinet
Sliced the air
It fell in ribbons again
Tucked it into my pants,
Sharp biting cold
Just like the mothers of
Conformists, normal everyday fuckers, with macho
Homophobic fears
The knife feels like home
And I wander the streets
Looking into the windows
A sad voyeur w/blade
& I spit
Spit it out
Onto the windows
Slimy mucous spit
Then I trace my name
I was here
There
Everywhere
The white picket fences lead me
Round the block
My head is turning to rott
Peering into a flat
Wifebeaters dirty clenching beer cans
Smashing pretty wives esteem
I bleed like the t.v.
Yet remain silent
My integrity still intact
By a thread
But thoughts of dead
Ghosts
Smashed windows
Pick locked doors
Bedroom covers
And those pillows
Smothering smashing faces
Crafty pretty little statues
Of last breaths
Ooh and the blade
Cold sharp biting in my side
I dance with it open
Spinning pirouettes round the room
Then I lean over the dead body
Slice a ring round the head
Carefully lift the skull cap
To reveal whats left of gods gift
Then I take a poem outta my pocket
Cut up all the little words and scatter them
Inside
Offfering up my lips and breath into the corpse
And I spit spit them out
They sputter and gag alive again
Then I bend down pull out my shoe string
Suture up the skull caps
Paint pretty happy X’s over their eyes
And dance outta the door
Down the street to the next victim
& on my way home I visit them all
Peeking into their windows
Snickering at their vacuous grins
As they try to figure out
These new thoughts
Random wild hectic purposeful thoughts
Then they slowly rise
Saunter over to the bathroom
Open up the medicine cabinet
Pry the child proof lids
Open mouths wide
Spilling all the pretty little pills
Upper downers the throat they go
Soon they will be surrounded by a happy glow
Free of their wasted time
Decrepit bodies fall fall
Down down to the floor
In the last twitches of death
And my poets feet
Pitter patter down the street
The blade is warm, happy content
For this moment well spent
Tossing out credibility
And random perceptions
A nice sigh will do
My work here is through.

John C Sweet

(1 poem added 04.14.09)

Hatchet

I'm trying to bury the hatchet
but it's hard to get out of the wood

Splinters of hurt shoot off
and dirty old wounds

I believe they can't hurt me again
but they can and they will

because they didn't even think they did
and they hurt me still.

Andrea DeAngelis

(3 poems added 04.13.09)

A GARLAND OF VERSE

Let me make a garland of verse for you
For words are all I have to give

Long have been your days and nights
Lengthy your weary trials

Let me create word music for you
And elevate you to soaring realms

Where the milky white clouds floating
Upon the lustrous night's canvas

Shall give testimonies of your poetic grace
And words will join together in applause

Let us open a bottle of our mutual wine
And sit by the door to our love street

On a dreamy morning reminding you of me
While the music of the spheres plays along

And while the music plays, let me also sing
With an eraser voice smoothly dissolving

The frozen tears on your time- weary face
Sanctifying the distance of empty spaces

Then let me strike the chords of harmony
And breathe poetic melodies in your jaded ears

And take you to a mind flight on the wordship
Bound towards the port of our purple sanctuary

Ashutosh Ghildiyal

(1 poem added 04.12.09)

One For the Road

Trains provide both
sleepers and coach seats
to stowaways with dreams
of roads that lead somewhere
to anywhere
but here.

In the boisterous club car,
a reborn
born again
recalls tales of Hell’s Angel days,
war stories of death, mayhem
passion, psycho-analysis and visions
of a higher power
and the end of all days.

I
listen
without notice
and seek out the loneliness of the night.
Through the windows to the world
of high plains and misery
I pray for mercy
from his pickled brain ravings
and retellings
of his truth
that is easier said
than heard.

Sampson,
the pig-tailed muscle man,
shake hands with his brethren
and takes to the stairwell
before bumping aside the young one
in tighter than tight faded jeans
that I wish I could touch
even though
the girl
is young enough to be my daughter.

As the car hits rails
junked with rocks and snow
the redhead falls hard against the stationary table
and yelps like a scolded puppy
before I pull her to safety
with my strong arms
and soon afterwards
into my bunk and army hard cot
as we listen to
the clicky-clack
to the paddy-wack
of the rails
through gin-soaked words
where somehow
she finds a place in my heart
I thought was
dead.

For a few moments
I’m sixteen again
in the backseat of the parent’s
Mustang convertible
in the drive-in theater
where all bad boys and girls
played Russian roulette with love.

When we finish our games
and dawn pokes out in the horizon
she speaks of school,
a better life,
and excuses herself
for her next stop
on the sunrise highway.

We kiss the newness off
before she disappears
down the private car for the privileged few.

As I follow her
with my eyes trained on her rhythmic movements
I realize that crying is for children
who never have enough candy.
My sweet life
is one for the road
and the little voice
reminds me
it’s time to move along, move along, move along...

Joseph D. DiLella

(1 poem added 04.11.09)

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