::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.17.09 :::

“O great creator of being grant us one more hour to perform our art and perfect our lives” Jim Morrison


Inferno (above) by Christian Millet, back again gracing the virtual walls of the Mad Gallery.

As they say (whoever they is), "when it rains it pours." Well it sure is pouring submissions over here at Mad Swirl! We've got tons of great work filling our inboxes, artists awaiting their turn to be hanging in the gallery and writers and their volumes upon volumes of short stories...all just waiting to be delivered to you. Not to mention, lots'o'swirlin' mad ideas and possibilities swimming in our heads that one of these days will escape...and when that levee breaks, look out!

But our true purpose today is to let you know what's happenin' in the most lively and active place on MadSwirl.com and that is in our Poetry Forum. Each week we go and gather poetic morsels from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big, blue, swirly marble and showcase them just for you!

Got your snorkel? Are you ready to swim in the ocean of mad poetry? Well then let's go!

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I'd Lite Her Up

The ease of these days is the axe that splits the weak
Separates the 40 hour mind from the 6 hour break
The cycle is broken only when they dream
They call this a day in the life of conformity
I can't see why they won't cross the line
Step out in front of the speeding machine
Either hit it head on
Or get run over just for fun

If I could find a girl like that!

I'd give a star to her every day of the month

I'd build a reservoir filled with life and drown her in it every night

I'd cover her eyes tight while I pulled the curtain from the sun

I'd make it a point to tell her that...

I'd go out of my way to lite her up!

Glen Still

(3 poems added 07.17.09)

UNCATEGORIZED FEELING

I was having a feeling
unrecognized and uncategorized
"should I seek to express it?"
is what I was thinking
when a very sick friend came to my mind
a poet whose only comfort, consolation
lay in expressing every encounter, sensation
by putting them in words and images
and entering her creative zone
a mental universe, a dimension unknown
full of mystical rainbows, mythical beings
when I, who lack imagination
and the bent for conceptualization
asked myself if escape is beautiful
and must beauty be expressed

Ashutosh Ghildiyal

(1 poem added 07.16.09)

HOPE IN A TIN CAN

In Hermosillo they don't have mailboxes
on the houses.
If you think someday something
will come in the mail
that will transform your life
like hope in a tin can
you're out of luck here.
So many Americans sit at their windows waiting
like comet freaks,
their lives dead rocks
floating around the mailbox
like a black hole on a stick
with the gravity of another world
on the other side.
That's why people go crazy
on Sundays.
The mailman is many people's only friend:
his steady, bored orbit,
his little white van like a streak in the sky,
his ritualized,
puritan kindness.
They see whoever they want to see
as he flicks fates into boxes
like a billboard god.
The trick is not to worry,
that's all.
If something is meant to find you
it'll find you.
In Hermosillo, the guy brings the electric bill
on a moped
and sticks it under your car's windshield wiper,
where your 6 year old nephew finds it
and makes a paper airplane
that sails across the bed
and pokes you in the moon.

Mather Schneider

(added 07.15.09)

Baudelaire Reading Maturin

The mast torn,
The ship splintered,
The cries of those
Who know
That there
Is nothing more
Than the depths
That consume.

Green shores
Of the country
Of bandits.
It is better
That the sea
Swallowed them,
For this is the land
Of disappointments,
Of sharp blades
Shining,

On the rocks,
Crashing,
The soul is guaranteed
Its place
In memory alongside
Of boiled cabbage,
Tragedy makes
The poor man's
Meal more palpable.

Melmoth,
Stiff in the serenity
Of his nightmare
Gazes out craving
The end.
The mind
Cannot fathom
What the heart
Is closed to.

In a far off room
With only a passing
River
The poet drinks
Down
This delirium.

Salvation.

The passing pages
Can not hide
The epiphany
That drowned
Men
Find in oblivion.

John Greiner

(2 poems added 07.14.09)

Loon Call
(In memory of Richard Sevrens)

We met under the bodhi tree
with chips for me
almonds for you
drink my strong coffee
out of a red carafe

We talk about hearing Mingus
places you drove your taxi
I talk about my shitty week
Remember Gayle, it's the streets
and it's war

I turn a corner expecting your
surprised face enveloping me
in a Richard hug you reserve
for old jazz boppers
even an errant funkster

We were listening to quartets
body and soul moving
to hip kats and kitties
speaking poems and rants

We sit under the tree
discussing Hughes' haiku
and a Miles brew
your flute resting at your side
I wake up and remember
My tears falling in b flat minor
trilling coherent patterns
on this page

Gayle Bell

(3 poems added 07.13.09)

The Undersides of Tongues

What a whale of a time!
We snuck in through the teeth
and peered at the undersides of tongues.

The undersides of tongues
are bluish in the streams
yellow in the field
coal-black in the pits
licking plums bare off their bones
grading milk
skimming paper
coaxing dancers
(whisper whisper)

They trumpet in our ears!
THE UNDERSIDES OF TONGUES
I found initials carved in underskin
tingeing every word that trips
color seeping from the sea
the words diving with the whale
hiding tangled in the weeds
listening with seashell ears
echoing off the cliffs

She balanced a bubble on the tip of her tongue
I thought it would pop, but
(the undersides of tongues)
it drifted free
I caught a world of a glimpse
little pinpricks coming out of her mouth
but glowing from time spent underneath
conversing with us hide-and-seekers

And we learned that the oversides of tongues
roll and froth and crash like ink
but the undersides of tongues stick out
making faces faces faces
faces all through whale time
and diving into the bluish stream
yellow-field expressions
coal-black from the pits

Twinklewinklestinkle Dinklehinkle

(added 07.11.09)

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Ah, was that not a refreshing dip into the poetry pool? Our poetic pool is open 24/7 (sorry, no lifeguards on duty) so please feel free to come by Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum for a swim when ever you feel the need! We're tellin' ya', the 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.

Madly Yours,

Johnny O
Chief Mad Man

MH Clay
Poetry Editor

"We are all one child spinning through Mother Sky" Pawnee Indian Proverb

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