::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.26.09 :::
"Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert
integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary." Cecil Beaton
"Blue Pool" (above) by Jon Marquette, one of over twenty mad swirlin' resident artists currently being displayed in the Mad Gallery.
It's Friday and you know what that means...it's time for our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! We've gone and gathered poetic vittles from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big, blue swirly marble and showcased them just for you!
Don't forget, let these mad poets know what you think! Show 'em some mad love right here.
Life and something else
I am riding in the cab
and I watch the wrinkles at the driver’s skull:
I guess that this is victory-
the delight is pouring on me like rain:
I am on the faceless streets of Chicago
and from the radio is playing some good piano,
I watch outside through the window
the sun looks like a cat
sleeping in the corner of nowhere
I pay the driver, get out, walk in the light,
from the shelves in front of the bookstores
some faces are looking at me
faces of writers screaming for recognition,
words dry like autumns leaves,
my head aches
my eyes are weary,
I stretch out my empty hand
(the other one is holding the glass or
the conductor’s stick)
I am thinking about Hemingway
and continue to walk-
sometimes they tell me (but not too often),
that I am a fair poet,
but I am just dreaming for little quietness,
for one small escape from everything,
for one calm storm outside,
for the collected works of de Sade
some day
everything will have some meaning
but until then…
Angels,
give me something black and shiny
to put in my mouth.
Peycho Kanev
(3 poems added 06.26.09)
From "r", the new book by Peycho Kanev.
To order a copy please click here.
Crying Out to Walt Whitman after Midnight in a Suburban Yard
Dear Walt,
I took off my bandages
and the scabs came off too
and there was blood--
so is it too soon for me
to run around this backyard
yelling
I'm healed!
it was pale
like trillium growing under fallen bark.
You were a nurse and I don't feel
like holding a seance
so just tell me,
and I can feel my breath fill the bottom of my ribcage--
and I want to fly to Paris
and look out the window--
and I want to play my guitar on the grass
behind my house at 2 am--
Yes, this skin is forming
and I am protected
because I CHOOSE.
I want to exist
as if I am lying down between the bride and bridegroom.
Heather Ann Schmidt
(3 poems added 06.25.09)
Cozy
I want to be knitted alive into a body-sized cozy
made of organic fair-trade soy yarn
by very creative people who are skilled at knitting.
While these creative people knitted my cozy,
I would feel like I was being touched
by the feelers of large furry insects
who were curious about me.
The cozy would wrap my body completely,
leaving no openings wide enough for anyone to see any part of my face.
(To survive, my body could maybe develop photosynthesis.)
They could leave me in a hip art gallery
and hipsters could come and look at me lying there,
and I wouldn't have to worry about doing anything to impress them.
I wouldn't have to worry about doing or saying anything ever again.
Steve Subrizi
(3 poems added 06.24.09)
Never the Music
I am familiar with the falling
of an artist's eye on my form,
the uplooking of a poet at
some eavesdropped line, for
they are always eavesdropping.
I know the next stage just as well:
Open the windows, get a typewriter
with satisfyingly clacking keys and
talk and write, draw and sing
and smoke and drink, don't sleep.
Something will startle him between the
second movement and the third.
He will pack his manuscripts and drawings,
the ideas teeming in his headsea,
and knock hopefully on some doorstep
no doubt belonging to a nubile Madonna,
with a wide, spreading smile.
and a Madonna (everyone knows) is better than a Muse.
Those muses, they're unstable.
They don't know what they want, even if it's you.
Erin Marissa Russell
(added 06.23.09)
room 1101 at the buckminster hotel
in the morning
when the dawn splinters our room
and her mouth
could melt butter
the cliché of
her legs
long and drawn out
like a lie told one too many times
gets chewed up and spit out
in a full metal jacket
of love and blood, and wars
fought with teeth clenched
in delerious
fits of rage
A.g. Synclair
(1 poem added 06.22.09)
Our Brown Lipstick
They are both wearing it
the same shade--
brother and sister
man and woman--
that dark brown chocolatey lipstick
Ay ya yay!
They are Kyopos, Korean-Americans
who have come back home
"our" home, they call it.
I haven't written any poetry. Novels are sitting dead
in hard drives, X drives, and drawers
scared to come out like small penises swimming in big drawers
They say outlet mall in Korean yet distribution center in english although the word outlet mall that they use in Korean was borrowed from English. It's like a 22 Catch. 2-3 means two strikes and 3 balls. At home I was born 10/12/1975 here it's 75/12/10.
I have an arm with 6 or 7 eight-inch long cat scratches. A girl I used to teach has one half inch cat scratch on her hand. She complains to me about how much it hurts. She's a Korean girl. The Korean ego is different. Korean empathy is different. I am supposed to feel for her, not rub it in her face that hers is nothing relatively. In fact relative thought barely exists here. It's heirarchichal thought. People are used to being told what to do by "our" brother and "our" country so that when they are left with a chance to think for themselves they are unequipped. It's a bit different than stupid. They are not stupid yet they'll be walking in the road and not think to get out of the way when a car comes.
With a little brown lipstick the Kyopo fits right in, deep deep bows, slave to Master
and smiles in the mirror.
Moctezuma Johnson
(1 poem added 06.21.09)
For Her, My Soul
There’s too much space in my soul—the black
spots that trickle down after glancing at the sun
too long, remind me of how much is there.
The cool breeze between the blades
of the ceiling fan swirls my thoughts around
the room, whispers of a presence,
stronger than myself. I am moved by the way
the wind shuffles the blinds and taps against
the window like wind-chimes—a childhood melody
of ice cream dreams and pastel chalks
littered on sidewalks. Of how the rainbow-colored
dust rises and carries me to a place
where I’ve met my soul once or twice before.
She reminds me of the space between our breath
and is waiting for us to become whole again.
Lisa M. Cronkhite
(added 06.20.09)
Didn't we tell you that these poems are tasty? Well there's plenty more where that came from! Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is chock full with over 100 active poets (and growing everyday). Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.
To view the entire Poetry Forum archive please click here.
Now go forth and be MAD,
Johnny O
“I suppose it is much more comfortable to be mad and know it, than to be sane and have one's doubts.” G.B. Burgin
integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary." Cecil Beaton
"Blue Pool" (above) by Jon Marquette, one of over twenty mad swirlin' resident artists currently being displayed in the Mad Gallery.
It's Friday and you know what that means...it's time for our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum! We've gone and gathered poetic vittles from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big, blue swirly marble and showcased them just for you!
Don't forget, let these mad poets know what you think! Show 'em some mad love right here.
Life and something else
I am riding in the cab
and I watch the wrinkles at the driver’s skull:
I guess that this is victory-
the delight is pouring on me like rain:
I am on the faceless streets of Chicago
and from the radio is playing some good piano,
I watch outside through the window
the sun looks like a cat
sleeping in the corner of nowhere
I pay the driver, get out, walk in the light,
from the shelves in front of the bookstores
some faces are looking at me
faces of writers screaming for recognition,
words dry like autumns leaves,
my head aches
my eyes are weary,
I stretch out my empty hand
(the other one is holding the glass or
the conductor’s stick)
I am thinking about Hemingway
and continue to walk-
sometimes they tell me (but not too often),
that I am a fair poet,
but I am just dreaming for little quietness,
for one small escape from everything,
for one calm storm outside,
for the collected works of de Sade
some day
everything will have some meaning
but until then…
Angels,
give me something black and shiny
to put in my mouth.
Peycho Kanev
(3 poems added 06.26.09)
From "r", the new book by Peycho Kanev.
To order a copy please click here.
Crying Out to Walt Whitman after Midnight in a Suburban Yard
Dear Walt,
I took off my bandages
and the scabs came off too
and there was blood--
so is it too soon for me
to run around this backyard
yelling
I'm healed!
it was pale
like trillium growing under fallen bark.
You were a nurse and I don't feel
like holding a seance
so just tell me,
and I can feel my breath fill the bottom of my ribcage--
and I want to fly to Paris
and look out the window--
and I want to play my guitar on the grass
behind my house at 2 am--
Yes, this skin is forming
and I am protected
because I CHOOSE.
I want to exist
as if I am lying down between the bride and bridegroom.
Heather Ann Schmidt
(3 poems added 06.25.09)
Cozy
I want to be knitted alive into a body-sized cozy
made of organic fair-trade soy yarn
by very creative people who are skilled at knitting.
While these creative people knitted my cozy,
I would feel like I was being touched
by the feelers of large furry insects
who were curious about me.
The cozy would wrap my body completely,
leaving no openings wide enough for anyone to see any part of my face.
(To survive, my body could maybe develop photosynthesis.)
They could leave me in a hip art gallery
and hipsters could come and look at me lying there,
and I wouldn't have to worry about doing anything to impress them.
I wouldn't have to worry about doing or saying anything ever again.
Steve Subrizi
(3 poems added 06.24.09)
Never the Music
I am familiar with the falling
of an artist's eye on my form,
the uplooking of a poet at
some eavesdropped line, for
they are always eavesdropping.
I know the next stage just as well:
Open the windows, get a typewriter
with satisfyingly clacking keys and
talk and write, draw and sing
and smoke and drink, don't sleep.
Something will startle him between the
second movement and the third.
He will pack his manuscripts and drawings,
the ideas teeming in his headsea,
and knock hopefully on some doorstep
no doubt belonging to a nubile Madonna,
with a wide, spreading smile.
and a Madonna (everyone knows) is better than a Muse.
Those muses, they're unstable.
They don't know what they want, even if it's you.
Erin Marissa Russell
(added 06.23.09)
room 1101 at the buckminster hotel
in the morning
when the dawn splinters our room
and her mouth
could melt butter
the cliché of
her legs
long and drawn out
like a lie told one too many times
gets chewed up and spit out
in a full metal jacket
of love and blood, and wars
fought with teeth clenched
in delerious
fits of rage
A.g. Synclair
(1 poem added 06.22.09)
Our Brown Lipstick
They are both wearing it
the same shade--
brother and sister
man and woman--
that dark brown chocolatey lipstick
Ay ya yay!
They are Kyopos, Korean-Americans
who have come back home
"our" home, they call it.
I haven't written any poetry. Novels are sitting dead
in hard drives, X drives, and drawers
scared to come out like small penises swimming in big drawers
They say outlet mall in Korean yet distribution center in english although the word outlet mall that they use in Korean was borrowed from English. It's like a 22 Catch. 2-3 means two strikes and 3 balls. At home I was born 10/12/1975 here it's 75/12/10.
I have an arm with 6 or 7 eight-inch long cat scratches. A girl I used to teach has one half inch cat scratch on her hand. She complains to me about how much it hurts. She's a Korean girl. The Korean ego is different. Korean empathy is different. I am supposed to feel for her, not rub it in her face that hers is nothing relatively. In fact relative thought barely exists here. It's heirarchichal thought. People are used to being told what to do by "our" brother and "our" country so that when they are left with a chance to think for themselves they are unequipped. It's a bit different than stupid. They are not stupid yet they'll be walking in the road and not think to get out of the way when a car comes.
With a little brown lipstick the Kyopo fits right in, deep deep bows, slave to Master
and smiles in the mirror.
Moctezuma Johnson
(1 poem added 06.21.09)
For Her, My Soul
There’s too much space in my soul—the black
spots that trickle down after glancing at the sun
too long, remind me of how much is there.
The cool breeze between the blades
of the ceiling fan swirls my thoughts around
the room, whispers of a presence,
stronger than myself. I am moved by the way
the wind shuffles the blinds and taps against
the window like wind-chimes—a childhood melody
of ice cream dreams and pastel chalks
littered on sidewalks. Of how the rainbow-colored
dust rises and carries me to a place
where I’ve met my soul once or twice before.
She reminds me of the space between our breath
and is waiting for us to become whole again.
Lisa M. Cronkhite
(added 06.20.09)
Didn't we tell you that these poems are tasty? Well there's plenty more where that came from! Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is chock full with over 100 active poets (and growing everyday). Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.
To view the entire Poetry Forum archive please click here.
Now go forth and be MAD,
Johnny O
“I suppose it is much more comfortable to be mad and know it, than to be sane and have one's doubts.” G.B. Burgin
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