::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.12.09 :::
"The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes.” André Gides
"House of Cards" (above) by Shelly Pinder, a long time mad swirlin' resident artist being displayed in the Mad Gallery!
Who wants some of this? You want some of this? Some of what? Some Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum, that's what! Here's a samplin' of poetry we've gathered from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big and blue swirly marble and showcased them just for you, yes, you!...
Love Letter
Lying here watching a pillar of smoke rise from the neon cherry of a cigarette. This room would look like a grainy black and white photograph or some obscure film noir about a busty blond and a private eye if it weren’t for the cold, blue duotone cast from a clock on the bedside table.
My eyes adjust from the red glow of a half-smoked cigarette to the blue hue of numbers blurry in the distance.
12:10
The room feels dead until the hiss of the heater kicks on and pushes the pillar of smoke into twisty curls and tapers it off into ozone. As I snuff the life out of my cigarette, crushing its cherry into smoldering embers under the tip of my middle finger, I feel your skin nestle perfectly next to mine. Your hand in my curves, your warmth against my neck. A cool, blue-black jigsaw of flesh.
Gigi Foster
(3 poems added 06.12.09)
THE ATTACK OF THE 50 FT WOMAN
I am not sure how someone
came up with this idea but
it is brilliant.
I have no reason to believe
that the man who imagined it
did so while reading sad letters–
many of them–but I have
no reason to believe he wasn’t.
You may say: “Perhaps a woman
wrote it.” Cautiously, I would reply,
“I have no reason to believe so” and
then would interrupt myself to say:
”No, she didn’t.”
Who is she?
The woman who didn’t write the screenplay
for ATTACK OF THE 50 FT WOMAN.
I would very much like to meet her.
Meanwhile, the other woman, this 50 ft. woman,
is apparently very angry at her husband who is
committing hanky panky left right and center
and she is determined to find him and take him
in one of her huge hands and crush his whole
body like a walnut.
I believe that the trailer even shows a picture
of him, dressed nicely in a suit, in her hand,
squirming. You can almost feel the anticipation,
which is delicious.
The walnut part I added myself. I tried
to crush one years ago during a strange
and interesting flight of fancy but it only
left a reddish impression in the palm of
my hand and little aching in my fingers;
I felt foolish and alone.
Later that night, and far away,
I dreamt that I was living
in Babylon and listening to Marduk
the short-tempered god of Babylon
talking on and on about floods. “Then
I will make this flood” and “Then I
will make that flood” until I fall asleep
in my dream and wake up and see
That I am right in front of the TV and
there is the 50 ft woman in front of me.
It’s just as well that she’s there.
We live in a society today that would
not honor or respect a 50 ft woman,
who, once upon a time, would have
been likened to a god. It’s all in
the dream.
Even though the 50 ft woman was
made fifty years ago, truthfully, they
didn’t care for her much even then.
They liked things like spoon bread.
And 5 cent cigars. Not fifty foot women.
And there was only one of them.
My doctor says: “You must learn
to stop romanticizing. It is bad for
the internal organs.”
Still, someday I will leave this world
without a word and go to a special
place that would embrace the 50 ft
woman, even if she is attacking
something. I am certain that it would
be unlike any place that I have ever
imagined, although I do imagine
That there would be palm trees but
no, no, it would not be Babylon.
There would be walnuts, in abundance,
and a bed of grass in which to sleep.
There would be more than enough
room for everybody, scoundrels
would be there, and hope would
Flourish, and televisions would
work miracles as they often do
And the grass would stretch out before
you, or me, for much much more than
just fifty feet.
Ricky Garni
(1 poem added 06.11.09)
I HAVE ISSUES
What angels good or bad
hover over my shoulder?
Do they want my soul?
I have issues sometimes.
In my bedroom under
my bed are newspapers,
which I steal from news
racks because voices
command me to do it.
I hear angels with wings
and angels with horns,
who guide my actions.
They want me to save
the city from the bad news
printed in newspapers.
I bring a bag of quarters
to every newspaper rack
in town and steal every
issue of the city's papers.
I am doing God's will,
protecting the human race
from news about war, death,
and famine. I save them
from the frivolous lives
of celebrities. I take the
papers to my room and
edit out all the bad stuff.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(2 poems added 06.10.09)
CONTAINING BEAUTY
As the invisible music flows
evoking from sleepy depths
the untouched distant chords
urgently seeking expression
I struggle for a moment
first with recognition
then with verbalization
of this unknown apparition
Notwithstanding the urge
to purge myself of the weight
of this unexpressed composition
barring all sensual imposition
But sometimes
words are not enough
language is insufficient
and weak and limited
Struggle fruitless
forced expression incomplete
suggesting that it is better
to contain beauty than do it injustice
Ashutosh Ghildiyal
(1 poem added 06.09.09)
Light a match, Start Anew
You walk yourself into a dark crowded room
..With vivid thoughts runnin' in your head
Catchin' a glimpse of your mind makes you go in-bloom
..And then you realize there's no fear to dread
You walk into society and wonder if it's real
..People exchangin' words and rubbin' shoulders in the halls
Never hand in your naked thoughts that's what you learn in the aisle
..But you should ask yourself whether you maybe wanna break these walls
You hear a saxaphone lyin' somewhere at the corner of the street playin' music
..So believe in whatever you believe and carry on
Well its all about the joy of livin' to the end of the lit matchstick
..Being content without searchin' for the tomb of jewels defines the new dawn
You see the two-sided page of love and hatred flyin' out the window
..Not knowin' where it lands you glance at the sight of it turnin' away
Sadly you don't realize the ink's dry on it and its now cast into a shadow
..Carve yourself anew for there ain't gonna be any doomsday
Ray Gonsalves
(added 06.08.09)
small revenge
I don’t care about the metrics, the iambus
and the rhymes-I have read the classics and then
I put them back on their dusty shelves:
we write about something that comes from the guts
and the nails as the flowers outside
explode…
the poetry, can I say that I don’t care?
I prefer to drink alone in this room in front of
one candle
as the shadows in the corners sits and show us
their ugly faces,
ah, I know that the words are greater that we thought
and we will fall in their holes,
we will spill ourselves like ink upon the Chaucer’s paper:
let me be myself while I read the classics
let me be afraid in airplanes
let me be bored in churches
let me be silent before the tigers in my blood:
these words are too tuff for us to misspend them
just like the big boys during their time.
the rivers are flowing through me
and I burn like matchstick lighted by the words
of all Shakespeares …
and today I am closer to insanity,
I am watching the black birds on the wires,
waiting for our degradation,
for our small defeat while we walk upon the land of
Dylan and Frost, especially on the thin ice
of Frost
…find me one small torch,
not too big, just enough to set this night on fire
and I hear outside the young girls laugh
never heard about the hunger of Villon or the madness of Pound,
please feed me so good so I never again use their words,
let me find a little warmth,
allow me to find my sunflowers
shaking in the wind
and under the sun
and the God of the Word not Death.
Peycho Kanev
(2 poems added 06.07.09)
You asked for it and, as promised, we gave it to ya'!Now with over 100 poets (and growing everyday), Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is truly a poetic voice to be reckoned with. Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.
To view the entire Poetry Forum archive please click here.
Let these mad ones know what you think! Leave your comment right here.
"House of Cards" (above) by Shelly Pinder, a long time mad swirlin' resident artist being displayed in the Mad Gallery!
Who wants some of this? You want some of this? Some of what? Some Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum, that's what! Here's a samplin' of poetry we've gathered from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big and blue swirly marble and showcased them just for you, yes, you!...
Love Letter
Lying here watching a pillar of smoke rise from the neon cherry of a cigarette. This room would look like a grainy black and white photograph or some obscure film noir about a busty blond and a private eye if it weren’t for the cold, blue duotone cast from a clock on the bedside table.
My eyes adjust from the red glow of a half-smoked cigarette to the blue hue of numbers blurry in the distance.
12:10
The room feels dead until the hiss of the heater kicks on and pushes the pillar of smoke into twisty curls and tapers it off into ozone. As I snuff the life out of my cigarette, crushing its cherry into smoldering embers under the tip of my middle finger, I feel your skin nestle perfectly next to mine. Your hand in my curves, your warmth against my neck. A cool, blue-black jigsaw of flesh.
Gigi Foster
(3 poems added 06.12.09)
THE ATTACK OF THE 50 FT WOMAN
I am not sure how someone
came up with this idea but
it is brilliant.
I have no reason to believe
that the man who imagined it
did so while reading sad letters–
many of them–but I have
no reason to believe he wasn’t.
You may say: “Perhaps a woman
wrote it.” Cautiously, I would reply,
“I have no reason to believe so” and
then would interrupt myself to say:
”No, she didn’t.”
Who is she?
The woman who didn’t write the screenplay
for ATTACK OF THE 50 FT WOMAN.
I would very much like to meet her.
Meanwhile, the other woman, this 50 ft. woman,
is apparently very angry at her husband who is
committing hanky panky left right and center
and she is determined to find him and take him
in one of her huge hands and crush his whole
body like a walnut.
I believe that the trailer even shows a picture
of him, dressed nicely in a suit, in her hand,
squirming. You can almost feel the anticipation,
which is delicious.
The walnut part I added myself. I tried
to crush one years ago during a strange
and interesting flight of fancy but it only
left a reddish impression in the palm of
my hand and little aching in my fingers;
I felt foolish and alone.
Later that night, and far away,
I dreamt that I was living
in Babylon and listening to Marduk
the short-tempered god of Babylon
talking on and on about floods. “Then
I will make this flood” and “Then I
will make that flood” until I fall asleep
in my dream and wake up and see
That I am right in front of the TV and
there is the 50 ft woman in front of me.
It’s just as well that she’s there.
We live in a society today that would
not honor or respect a 50 ft woman,
who, once upon a time, would have
been likened to a god. It’s all in
the dream.
Even though the 50 ft woman was
made fifty years ago, truthfully, they
didn’t care for her much even then.
They liked things like spoon bread.
And 5 cent cigars. Not fifty foot women.
And there was only one of them.
My doctor says: “You must learn
to stop romanticizing. It is bad for
the internal organs.”
Still, someday I will leave this world
without a word and go to a special
place that would embrace the 50 ft
woman, even if she is attacking
something. I am certain that it would
be unlike any place that I have ever
imagined, although I do imagine
That there would be palm trees but
no, no, it would not be Babylon.
There would be walnuts, in abundance,
and a bed of grass in which to sleep.
There would be more than enough
room for everybody, scoundrels
would be there, and hope would
Flourish, and televisions would
work miracles as they often do
And the grass would stretch out before
you, or me, for much much more than
just fifty feet.
Ricky Garni
(1 poem added 06.11.09)
I HAVE ISSUES
What angels good or bad
hover over my shoulder?
Do they want my soul?
I have issues sometimes.
In my bedroom under
my bed are newspapers,
which I steal from news
racks because voices
command me to do it.
I hear angels with wings
and angels with horns,
who guide my actions.
They want me to save
the city from the bad news
printed in newspapers.
I bring a bag of quarters
to every newspaper rack
in town and steal every
issue of the city's papers.
I am doing God's will,
protecting the human race
from news about war, death,
and famine. I save them
from the frivolous lives
of celebrities. I take the
papers to my room and
edit out all the bad stuff.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(2 poems added 06.10.09)
CONTAINING BEAUTY
As the invisible music flows
evoking from sleepy depths
the untouched distant chords
urgently seeking expression
I struggle for a moment
first with recognition
then with verbalization
of this unknown apparition
Notwithstanding the urge
to purge myself of the weight
of this unexpressed composition
barring all sensual imposition
But sometimes
words are not enough
language is insufficient
and weak and limited
Struggle fruitless
forced expression incomplete
suggesting that it is better
to contain beauty than do it injustice
Ashutosh Ghildiyal
(1 poem added 06.09.09)
Light a match, Start Anew
You walk yourself into a dark crowded room
..With vivid thoughts runnin' in your head
Catchin' a glimpse of your mind makes you go in-bloom
..And then you realize there's no fear to dread
You walk into society and wonder if it's real
..People exchangin' words and rubbin' shoulders in the halls
Never hand in your naked thoughts that's what you learn in the aisle
..But you should ask yourself whether you maybe wanna break these walls
You hear a saxaphone lyin' somewhere at the corner of the street playin' music
..So believe in whatever you believe and carry on
Well its all about the joy of livin' to the end of the lit matchstick
..Being content without searchin' for the tomb of jewels defines the new dawn
You see the two-sided page of love and hatred flyin' out the window
..Not knowin' where it lands you glance at the sight of it turnin' away
Sadly you don't realize the ink's dry on it and its now cast into a shadow
..Carve yourself anew for there ain't gonna be any doomsday
Ray Gonsalves
(added 06.08.09)
small revenge
I don’t care about the metrics, the iambus
and the rhymes-I have read the classics and then
I put them back on their dusty shelves:
we write about something that comes from the guts
and the nails as the flowers outside
explode…
the poetry, can I say that I don’t care?
I prefer to drink alone in this room in front of
one candle
as the shadows in the corners sits and show us
their ugly faces,
ah, I know that the words are greater that we thought
and we will fall in their holes,
we will spill ourselves like ink upon the Chaucer’s paper:
let me be myself while I read the classics
let me be afraid in airplanes
let me be bored in churches
let me be silent before the tigers in my blood:
these words are too tuff for us to misspend them
just like the big boys during their time.
the rivers are flowing through me
and I burn like matchstick lighted by the words
of all Shakespeares …
and today I am closer to insanity,
I am watching the black birds on the wires,
waiting for our degradation,
for our small defeat while we walk upon the land of
Dylan and Frost, especially on the thin ice
of Frost
…find me one small torch,
not too big, just enough to set this night on fire
and I hear outside the young girls laugh
never heard about the hunger of Villon or the madness of Pound,
please feed me so good so I never again use their words,
let me find a little warmth,
allow me to find my sunflowers
shaking in the wind
and under the sun
and the God of the Word not Death.
Peycho Kanev
(2 poems added 06.07.09)
You asked for it and, as promised, we gave it to ya'!Now with over 100 poets (and growing everyday), Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is truly a poetic voice to be reckoned with. Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.
To view the entire Poetry Forum archive please click here.
Let these mad ones know what you think! Leave your comment right here.
Comments