::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.19.09 :::
"I don't create poetry, I create myself, for me my poems are a way to me." Edith Södergran
"Revelation" (above) by Peter Schwartz, a mad swirlin' resident artist being displayed in the Mad Gallery.
Before we begin, there’s a question we have to ask. Do we look like we got bigger? Seriously. Do we? No? How sweet but YOU LIE! We are bigger. One poetry editor bigger! Yes folks, Mad Swirl has added a new mad one to our editorial crew. Allow us to introduce you to MH Clay, mad poetry editor. Some of you may know MH as a long-time regular at Mad Swirl Open Mic Night. Some may recognize him as one of the featured mad ones printed and recorded in Mad Swirl’s Blue Note Issue. Some might recall his name as being on one of our featured poets in our Poetry Forum. Some might be like "Who’s MH Clay?" Well, the best way to get to know him is thru his poetry. That’s right folks, he’s our first poet in this week’s…(drum roll please)
Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! Get ready to devour some poetry that 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. Are you ready? On your mark… get set…
…oh, one more thing before we begin, let these mad poets know what you think! Show 'em some mad love right here at our blog.
OK. Ready? Set? GO!
Youte
(Anse LaRaye, St. Lucia
A Friday night in June, 2002)
“Sick Youte!
Wicked Youte!”
Through these streets
Youte runs
Youte of the Friday nights
Youte of the street parties
The islanders move late
Move into the night
In the disco, lights are flashing
Ratas pulse to the reggae, country beat
Vacillating, syncopating
Rhythm and color spill into the street
Where sounds and smells
Attack the senses
Lobster, shrimp, seafood all
Life is consumed here
In great, gulping mouthfuls
There stands Augustine Raspar
Spouting wisdom for any to hear
“I make everyone dance!”
He laughs, “Because you never know.
So, live fast and quit!”
Amen
There stands the church
Graveyard full of those who danced
Youte grins a skeleton grin
He towers far above the town
Grinning down
Below him, pulsing mad and fast
Rastas, lobsters, island women
Sleek and brown
White-skinned tourists
The music rises
Engulfing all in a flood
Youte moves through the crowd
Taps each reveler on the shoulder
And leads a long conga line
Down to the shore
Skeleton grin
Until everyone is smiling
“Sick Youte!
Wicked Youte!”
MH Clay
(3 poems added 06.19.09)
For I Will Consider My Boobs
(inspired by Christopher Smart: For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry)
For they are ginormous compared to hers
For they are loved by breast connoisseurs
For they are filled with milk and honey
For they’re worn best on girls named Bunny
For they are the perfect hiding place
For mashed together, the spill over lace
For they are the sweetest bargaining chip
For they make him seek a pleasure trip
For when they’re bared they feel most free
For they are his ignition key
For they are a simple float-device
For they are doubled to be extra nice
For they are better than teat for tat
For they are exempt from being fat
For they are content without a tan
For they have garnered the worship of man
For they are seen but never heard
For they don’t won’t judge what has occurred
For they look grand inside a cup
For they aren’t told to button up
For they like to come out and have some fun
For they say happiness, is a warm gun.
Carol Lynn Grellas
(2 poems added 06.18.09)
The Clown
A full set of polished teeth to smile at the drunken scent of party jokes
as they fog the windowpanes with laughter and animal sweat.
A firm grip to crack the impressionable bones of businessmen,
garbed in suits that camouflage their Paleolithic bodies.
Vivacious eyebrows to wow the passerby with narrow hips
that swing under her dress like a lanky clapper inside a bell.
A proficient act, providing adults with the fleeting release of joy
that painted faces give children at the circus.
Your audience, however, is also the cause of my envy—
unlike them, I am incapable of laughing.
Dariel Suarez
(3 poems added 06.17.09)
Guts
Don't go
let's slip our skins
shrug them off and heave them aside
we'll be piles of slick quivering muscle
braided onto the racks of our bones
then we'll smash them
crumble them to dust
and drip the marrow into the earth
before the clock can strike
we'll disembowel it
slice it open
and loose a trillion miniature gears
gushing out in a river of gold dust
then we'll roll our souls in what we've left
and the grit will stick to us
we'll trickle ichor onto every grain
so that great iridescent pearls will bloom
and cocoon us in gloss
and we can stay like that
just wisps of existence
secreted inside the elements of our bodies
never knowing the agonies of separation
never needing the courage to forgive
Grant Loveys
(added 06.16.09)
Dirty Hands
not 2 or 4 or 6 or 8
the count must be double-digit
(hyphenated, not, have to pause to look it up)
not 10, 1+0=1, an odd number
11 will work, 1+1=2, an even number
not 13. Thirteen is too many
the number is very important
the question of the scrubbing
11 divided by 2 is not a whole number
3 up,
WAIT
d comes before u
have to start with down
l comes after d but before u
d then l then r before u
(not you)
down, left, right, up
3 down, 3 left, 3 right
(already 3 up)
that leaves 3, but 11+3=14, fourteen is too many
have to start again
down, left, right, up
3 down, 3 left, 3 right, 2 up
1 up to even the score
that leaves 10, 1+0=1, an odd number
have to start again
Jeffrey Qualls
(added 06.15.09)
This Good Life
What is the hunger of water-falls
for little men in tiny boats,
flirting with alluring whirlpools,
who lie on crowded Sunday beaches
dreaming of vacations in the winter,
burdened by cameras that seek
Palm Beach condos,
Fort Lauderdale motels,
Miami hotels.
The tourists sleep late, swim,
drive on across an aging land,
veined with highways of destruction,
submerged with cities of corrosion,
skeletoned by crumbling towns and farms,
and always arteries of roads, roads, roads,
coursing its people like blood
through a diseased body,
until one day
the price of oil
ends our way.
Gary Beck
(1 poem added 06.14.09)
"This Good Life" is from Gary Beck's new book of poetry "Days of Destruction." To order a copy of Gary's book please click here.
Outlaw By Omission
(An Oulipo Poem)
It is hazy, very much a dream I can’t quite remember that swims exactly like a black gear-ridden fish jetting inside my persistent mind.
It dips swirls, paces and turns, delighting in jarring, in frustrating, in quickening the thoughts that zigzag with velocity through the terribly vice-d existence I have barred.
No, not barred, but gathered, requested, sent on a return-less journey to nowhere, to walk bereaved of amazement and possessed of doom and coaxed loss.
Cozy upon the journey, the pain following the quiet departure, centered in my heart, fixed upon my mind, worn upon my face… for I believed it would not harm me put lice upon my tongue to call it back.
But I did not; I could not call, could only gaze, for calling would negatively impact, would jilt the quietly kept faux life I have formed around my empty onyx room.
For once such lust, such dark depraved thoughts have touched, have breezed the walls, the room may only stand empty, the tart mojo scent of equal sex and power that overwhelmed can even now, reach between.
I feel ripped, ripped asunder by a judgmental unfeeling twin, wearing my skirt, hanging myself, zippered between reality and standard, wanting all, but craving quite simply what I have sent away, its darkness virtually unfazed by the ride.
So I welcome back my dark, my luscious, waterlogged tears, that pour forth, slit my cheeks to wash away my mixed victory that I seized with such poise, attacked with such vigor, but is better replaced by a vexed gray fog that quickly jams itself right where it should be.
Margaret Christi
(added 06.13.09)
Oh yeah! That's what we're talking 'bout! Bam! Chock full 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.
'til next time, peace to you and yours,
Johnny O
"Revelation" (above) by Peter Schwartz, a mad swirlin' resident artist being displayed in the Mad Gallery.
Before we begin, there’s a question we have to ask. Do we look like we got bigger? Seriously. Do we? No? How sweet but YOU LIE! We are bigger. One poetry editor bigger! Yes folks, Mad Swirl has added a new mad one to our editorial crew. Allow us to introduce you to MH Clay, mad poetry editor. Some of you may know MH as a long-time regular at Mad Swirl Open Mic Night. Some may recognize him as one of the featured mad ones printed and recorded in Mad Swirl’s Blue Note Issue. Some might recall his name as being on one of our featured poets in our Poetry Forum. Some might be like "Who’s MH Clay?" Well, the best way to get to know him is thru his poetry. That’s right folks, he’s our first poet in this week’s…(drum roll please)
Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! Get ready to devour some poetry that 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. Are you ready? On your mark… get set…
…oh, one more thing before we begin, let these mad poets know what you think! Show 'em some mad love right here at our blog.
OK. Ready? Set? GO!
Youte
(Anse LaRaye, St. Lucia
A Friday night in June, 2002)
“Sick Youte!
Wicked Youte!”
Through these streets
Youte runs
Youte of the Friday nights
Youte of the street parties
The islanders move late
Move into the night
In the disco, lights are flashing
Ratas pulse to the reggae, country beat
Vacillating, syncopating
Rhythm and color spill into the street
Where sounds and smells
Attack the senses
Lobster, shrimp, seafood all
Life is consumed here
In great, gulping mouthfuls
There stands Augustine Raspar
Spouting wisdom for any to hear
“I make everyone dance!”
He laughs, “Because you never know.
So, live fast and quit!”
Amen
There stands the church
Graveyard full of those who danced
Youte grins a skeleton grin
He towers far above the town
Grinning down
Below him, pulsing mad and fast
Rastas, lobsters, island women
Sleek and brown
White-skinned tourists
The music rises
Engulfing all in a flood
Youte moves through the crowd
Taps each reveler on the shoulder
And leads a long conga line
Down to the shore
Skeleton grin
Until everyone is smiling
“Sick Youte!
Wicked Youte!”
MH Clay
(3 poems added 06.19.09)
For I Will Consider My Boobs
(inspired by Christopher Smart: For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry)
For they are ginormous compared to hers
For they are loved by breast connoisseurs
For they are filled with milk and honey
For they’re worn best on girls named Bunny
For they are the perfect hiding place
For mashed together, the spill over lace
For they are the sweetest bargaining chip
For they make him seek a pleasure trip
For when they’re bared they feel most free
For they are his ignition key
For they are a simple float-device
For they are doubled to be extra nice
For they are better than teat for tat
For they are exempt from being fat
For they are content without a tan
For they have garnered the worship of man
For they are seen but never heard
For they don’t won’t judge what has occurred
For they look grand inside a cup
For they aren’t told to button up
For they like to come out and have some fun
For they say happiness, is a warm gun.
Carol Lynn Grellas
(2 poems added 06.18.09)
The Clown
A full set of polished teeth to smile at the drunken scent of party jokes
as they fog the windowpanes with laughter and animal sweat.
A firm grip to crack the impressionable bones of businessmen,
garbed in suits that camouflage their Paleolithic bodies.
Vivacious eyebrows to wow the passerby with narrow hips
that swing under her dress like a lanky clapper inside a bell.
A proficient act, providing adults with the fleeting release of joy
that painted faces give children at the circus.
Your audience, however, is also the cause of my envy—
unlike them, I am incapable of laughing.
Dariel Suarez
(3 poems added 06.17.09)
Guts
Don't go
let's slip our skins
shrug them off and heave them aside
we'll be piles of slick quivering muscle
braided onto the racks of our bones
then we'll smash them
crumble them to dust
and drip the marrow into the earth
before the clock can strike
we'll disembowel it
slice it open
and loose a trillion miniature gears
gushing out in a river of gold dust
then we'll roll our souls in what we've left
and the grit will stick to us
we'll trickle ichor onto every grain
so that great iridescent pearls will bloom
and cocoon us in gloss
and we can stay like that
just wisps of existence
secreted inside the elements of our bodies
never knowing the agonies of separation
never needing the courage to forgive
Grant Loveys
(added 06.16.09)
Dirty Hands
not 2 or 4 or 6 or 8
the count must be double-digit
(hyphenated, not, have to pause to look it up)
not 10, 1+0=1, an odd number
11 will work, 1+1=2, an even number
not 13. Thirteen is too many
the number is very important
the question of the scrubbing
11 divided by 2 is not a whole number
3 up,
WAIT
d comes before u
have to start with down
l comes after d but before u
d then l then r before u
(not you)
down, left, right, up
3 down, 3 left, 3 right
(already 3 up)
that leaves 3, but 11+3=14, fourteen is too many
have to start again
down, left, right, up
3 down, 3 left, 3 right, 2 up
1 up to even the score
that leaves 10, 1+0=1, an odd number
have to start again
Jeffrey Qualls
(added 06.15.09)
This Good Life
What is the hunger of water-falls
for little men in tiny boats,
flirting with alluring whirlpools,
who lie on crowded Sunday beaches
dreaming of vacations in the winter,
burdened by cameras that seek
Palm Beach condos,
Fort Lauderdale motels,
Miami hotels.
The tourists sleep late, swim,
drive on across an aging land,
veined with highways of destruction,
submerged with cities of corrosion,
skeletoned by crumbling towns and farms,
and always arteries of roads, roads, roads,
coursing its people like blood
through a diseased body,
until one day
the price of oil
ends our way.
Gary Beck
(1 poem added 06.14.09)
"This Good Life" is from Gary Beck's new book of poetry "Days of Destruction." To order a copy of Gary's book please click here.
Outlaw By Omission
(An Oulipo Poem)
It is hazy, very much a dream I can’t quite remember that swims exactly like a black gear-ridden fish jetting inside my persistent mind.
It dips swirls, paces and turns, delighting in jarring, in frustrating, in quickening the thoughts that zigzag with velocity through the terribly vice-d existence I have barred.
No, not barred, but gathered, requested, sent on a return-less journey to nowhere, to walk bereaved of amazement and possessed of doom and coaxed loss.
Cozy upon the journey, the pain following the quiet departure, centered in my heart, fixed upon my mind, worn upon my face… for I believed it would not harm me put lice upon my tongue to call it back.
But I did not; I could not call, could only gaze, for calling would negatively impact, would jilt the quietly kept faux life I have formed around my empty onyx room.
For once such lust, such dark depraved thoughts have touched, have breezed the walls, the room may only stand empty, the tart mojo scent of equal sex and power that overwhelmed can even now, reach between.
I feel ripped, ripped asunder by a judgmental unfeeling twin, wearing my skirt, hanging myself, zippered between reality and standard, wanting all, but craving quite simply what I have sent away, its darkness virtually unfazed by the ride.
So I welcome back my dark, my luscious, waterlogged tears, that pour forth, slit my cheeks to wash away my mixed victory that I seized with such poise, attacked with such vigor, but is better replaced by a vexed gray fog that quickly jams itself right where it should be.
Margaret Christi
(added 06.13.09)
Oh yeah! That's what we're talking 'bout! Bam! Chock full 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.
'til next time, peace to you and yours,
Johnny O
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