::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 08.07.09 :::
“Breathe-in experience, breathe-out poetry.” Muriel Rukeyser
The Struggle For The Enchanted Rose (above) from the phantasmic mind of Joseph A. Garrison, currently being showcased in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery!
It's a beautiful day in the swirlyhood, a beautiful day for some madness! Would you be mi- Oh, hello neighbor. That's right, you caught us singing Mr. Rogers. So? We're happy campers here at Mad Swirl. If you were us you'd be singing too...
1) We had a wonderfully mad open mic featuring the Mochalux Experience followed up by a who's who of our loco local mad ones. Beat-u-til-full! 2) We also got new madness hanging in the gallery from painter Joseph A. Garrison. Phantasmic! 3) And our short story library keeps flowin' and growin' with the Roland Goity's new flash fiction piece "What He Was". Wow. 4) There's more? Yep, there's more...
There is these mad poetic conversations going on in one of the most lively and active places on MadSwirl.com in our Poetry Forum. Each week we are amazed at the voices that come from the most maddest of the mad poets from ALL corners of this big, blue, swirly marble. We are honored, amazed and blessed to showcase them each week just for you.
(ding-ding-ding) Here comes the trolley, it's time to go...
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
The Last Poem I Wrote For Her
Loving her was like loving fire.
Hot, beautiful, primal,
a terrible burning in the heart.
Not like loving earth,
something solid,
a place to stand,
to plant the feet
and grow things.
A love to live upon.
Nor was it like loving air.
Something you can breathe in
and relax surrounded by.
A cool evening breeze
that blows on through
lending a certain comfort
along it’s way.
It wasn’t even like loving water
drank in
swallowed up
a love that satiates,
can be survived upon
that cools, revives,
is the essence of life.
No,
loving her was like loving fire
and loving fire is a madness.
You want so badly to touch
it’s amazing incomprehensible
irresistible flame,
but it’s fire,
and even a lovely gentle fire
does but one thing;
consumes that which feeds it.
It only destroys.
Because, that’s what fire does.
No matter how exquisite
beautiful or enthralling,
It burns.
Loving her was like loving fire
and it consumed me
and scarred me
and burned away at my soul
until I was all burned up.
like a walking volcanic phantom,
sweltering ash in her wake.
May 30, 2009
Paul Sexton
(1 poem added 08.07.09)
(to order Paul Sexton's new book,
Her Soul Bled Out, please click here.)
CALL THE COPS
When someone tells me how they feel
I call the cops
When someone says a word I don't like
I call the cops
When someone listens to music above a whisper
I call the cops
When someone walks down the street and I've never seen them
I call the cops
There's people getting murdered
There's people getting raped
There's people getting robbed
And it's all by me so I call the cops
Every time that I wouldn't risk it
'Cause it could be traced to me
I call the cops
It takes the heat off of me and makes me feel Christian
After a long day of screwing people over, I call the cops
I call the cops
As I listened through my wall, someone said something that sounded iffy
I called the cops, they said they'd be there in a jiffy
There's a certain way you have to do everything
One day, you'll need a fucking license to walk
Officer, he made a face at me and he likes heavy rock
Can't kill my own neighbor without risking prison time
So I do like the best of those who break the law
I pull out all the stops and call the cops
I call the cops
I call the cops...
Kyle Segars
(1 poem added 08.06.09)
Visions
The spots
and dots
of color
which appear
in my vision
fade slowly,
only to reappear
with vigor.
I find it uncanny
how similar
you are
to these freckled parts
of my ill sight.
You run
jump
skip
within my mind,
and maybe,
occasionally,
return to my daily routine.
but you never stay.
how I wish that you would stay.
Silvi Saxena
(1 poem added 08.05.09)
The Understanding Boyfriend
when she began to emotionally cheat on me
we would take walks in the park
and she would talk to her "other" on her cell.
I was an understanding boyfriend
because love is love and usually I am happy
on my own but it did not take away the sting.
my ambivalence is unique because often times
things don't register til later.
I would sit a few yards away on the grass
writing poetry and she would be jizzing on a park bench
talking about statues and inscripted stones.
"desire can drive you mad" she would say.
I can only imagine him on the other end agreeing.
I was not it, I was reduced to a dog on a walk.
"let's go," she would say.
I'd get up knowing my day would come.
yesterday she called me back.
said it was not working between them.
I barked three times and hung up.
Mike Meraz
(3 poems added 08.04.09)
The Beach
The beach has
aromas of shells
and dead fish
here on the waterline
where the tide rolls in.
Green bits flounder,
ripped apart
from their offshore home;
gulls peck
at the fleshy remains,
find nothing of substance;
head to the jetty
for the chance
of a rock smashed
June repast.
Children run
past shattered castles,
kicking remnants on
98 pound weaklings
who even Atlas
simply shrugged off.
Under the boardwalk
the scents are different;
taffy, and French fries,
the briny smell
of last night’s amateur
excursions.
Clubs
are shuttered
in the light of day,
dark with their
Don’t ask, don’t tell
attitudes.
I am near
with my net
and detector,
searching as always
for meaningless treasure.
Salt dries
on leather
as I secret
my cache,
grains gathered
one by one
in cut glass jar,
remedy now for
broken
hourglasses.
I still hear laughter
from the far off Casino,
long before
Conventions were abandoned,
the round,
smiling clown
against the blue paint,
urging all
to come in and play,
away from
the burning boards.
An albatross soars,
soiling the rusting rails,
low rent paradise
even the Pony abandoned.
Water infected
with flesh-eating foulness,
sun refracting
against endless fog.
It’s 1972,
it’s eternity;
cruising by
Asbury’s rotting piers,
carousel creaking
in the endless turns
of memory.
Rose Morales
(1 poem added 08.03.09)
Shower Scene
Sometimes paper is no place for poetry; its
margins, motifs, schemes— revision—edits
sometimes you only get one shot, don’t miss
so listen for the water—
drawing trots on soft surface:
tanned pigment; the mirror’s
steamed—a lover is
drenched dot by dot
suds & bubbles devour curves
the water rounding the drain
is all the better after
liquid licks down her
nose, elbows and who knows—
I know what else…
The best ends—
for two hands, ten fingers, two lips; a tongue
:
spots soaked; streaks sneak in centimeters
cleanliness: this goddess;
my goodness, her scent
sticks
on towels, toilet paper;
two
toothbrushes
…
Listen—the water—
the veil blankets &
devours her;
dots, steam - sexier than lace
hazy curtains & running water
lust louder than war—
sexed curves,
wet bends—down the ribs…
to trace the steps is to find God &
the old curtain didn’t stop him
She’s poetry &
all for me
Tyler Malone
(1 poem added 08.02.09)
Watching Her Battle
Hiding from behind tree trunks we stared,
Enthralled shadows stood still,
Fighting the generous drops of rain
That descended from the morning sky,
Turning the color of the object
It touched and rolled across.
No one breathed,
For the lady had arrived,
Her body lithe swathed in blue swirls
That cascaded from azure, her long hair
Burgeoning from her perfect head.
The ripples that formed on the lake
As she walked soared from the surface
And eddied around her outstretched arms
In an exquisite juxtaposition
Of form and formation.
No one knew who she was but
Gentle gasps escaped
As a patina of aged dust
Lifted from the ground in
A cataract of fuming gray
And circled above her.
We waited for resistance, agog,
Like we always did every fortnight,
While she gestured, from smooth
To frantic, her eyes stolid in pain,
Engaging the wrath of nature.
She pulled a shard of azure from
her breast and cut a piece of gray
that hissed around her swishing arms.
As the unfolding climax drew closer,
She hesitated, hissed and stopped;
Her equipoise lost, she vanished -
Someone from behind the trees
Had stirred.
Ajay Vishwanathan
(added 08.01.09)
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
Do you see what we mean? It really is a beat-u-til-full day in this swirlyhood. And yes, an even more beat-u-til-full day for some madness! The Poetry Forum is truly buzzin' with madness and it’s living and breathing, an ever evolving and changing entity...so please, please and please, come by the neighborhood and come by as often as you like. Heck, join in on the poetic conversations! We'd love to have ya'.
Your Mad Swirlin' Neighbors,
Johnny O
Chief Mad Man
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
"A man might pass for insane who should see things as they are.” - Ellery Channing
The Struggle For The Enchanted Rose (above) from the phantasmic mind of Joseph A. Garrison, currently being showcased in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery!
It's a beautiful day in the swirlyhood, a beautiful day for some madness! Would you be mi- Oh, hello neighbor. That's right, you caught us singing Mr. Rogers. So? We're happy campers here at Mad Swirl. If you were us you'd be singing too...
1) We had a wonderfully mad open mic featuring the Mochalux Experience followed up by a who's who of our loco local mad ones. Beat-u-til-full! 2) We also got new madness hanging in the gallery from painter Joseph A. Garrison. Phantasmic! 3) And our short story library keeps flowin' and growin' with the Roland Goity's new flash fiction piece "What He Was". Wow. 4) There's more? Yep, there's more...
There is these mad poetic conversations going on in one of the most lively and active places on MadSwirl.com in our Poetry Forum. Each week we are amazed at the voices that come from the most maddest of the mad poets from ALL corners of this big, blue, swirly marble. We are honored, amazed and blessed to showcase them each week just for you.
(ding-ding-ding) Here comes the trolley, it's time to go...
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
The Last Poem I Wrote For Her
Loving her was like loving fire.
Hot, beautiful, primal,
a terrible burning in the heart.
Not like loving earth,
something solid,
a place to stand,
to plant the feet
and grow things.
A love to live upon.
Nor was it like loving air.
Something you can breathe in
and relax surrounded by.
A cool evening breeze
that blows on through
lending a certain comfort
along it’s way.
It wasn’t even like loving water
drank in
swallowed up
a love that satiates,
can be survived upon
that cools, revives,
is the essence of life.
No,
loving her was like loving fire
and loving fire is a madness.
You want so badly to touch
it’s amazing incomprehensible
irresistible flame,
but it’s fire,
and even a lovely gentle fire
does but one thing;
consumes that which feeds it.
It only destroys.
Because, that’s what fire does.
No matter how exquisite
beautiful or enthralling,
It burns.
Loving her was like loving fire
and it consumed me
and scarred me
and burned away at my soul
until I was all burned up.
like a walking volcanic phantom,
sweltering ash in her wake.
May 30, 2009
Paul Sexton
(1 poem added 08.07.09)
(to order Paul Sexton's new book,
Her Soul Bled Out, please click here.)
CALL THE COPS
When someone tells me how they feel
I call the cops
When someone says a word I don't like
I call the cops
When someone listens to music above a whisper
I call the cops
When someone walks down the street and I've never seen them
I call the cops
There's people getting murdered
There's people getting raped
There's people getting robbed
And it's all by me so I call the cops
Every time that I wouldn't risk it
'Cause it could be traced to me
I call the cops
It takes the heat off of me and makes me feel Christian
After a long day of screwing people over, I call the cops
I call the cops
As I listened through my wall, someone said something that sounded iffy
I called the cops, they said they'd be there in a jiffy
There's a certain way you have to do everything
One day, you'll need a fucking license to walk
Officer, he made a face at me and he likes heavy rock
Can't kill my own neighbor without risking prison time
So I do like the best of those who break the law
I pull out all the stops and call the cops
I call the cops
I call the cops...
Kyle Segars
(1 poem added 08.06.09)
Visions
The spots
and dots
of color
which appear
in my vision
fade slowly,
only to reappear
with vigor.
I find it uncanny
how similar
you are
to these freckled parts
of my ill sight.
You run
jump
skip
within my mind,
and maybe,
occasionally,
return to my daily routine.
but you never stay.
how I wish that you would stay.
Silvi Saxena
(1 poem added 08.05.09)
The Understanding Boyfriend
when she began to emotionally cheat on me
we would take walks in the park
and she would talk to her "other" on her cell.
I was an understanding boyfriend
because love is love and usually I am happy
on my own but it did not take away the sting.
my ambivalence is unique because often times
things don't register til later.
I would sit a few yards away on the grass
writing poetry and she would be jizzing on a park bench
talking about statues and inscripted stones.
"desire can drive you mad" she would say.
I can only imagine him on the other end agreeing.
I was not it, I was reduced to a dog on a walk.
"let's go," she would say.
I'd get up knowing my day would come.
yesterday she called me back.
said it was not working between them.
I barked three times and hung up.
Mike Meraz
(3 poems added 08.04.09)
The Beach
The beach has
aromas of shells
and dead fish
here on the waterline
where the tide rolls in.
Green bits flounder,
ripped apart
from their offshore home;
gulls peck
at the fleshy remains,
find nothing of substance;
head to the jetty
for the chance
of a rock smashed
June repast.
Children run
past shattered castles,
kicking remnants on
98 pound weaklings
who even Atlas
simply shrugged off.
Under the boardwalk
the scents are different;
taffy, and French fries,
the briny smell
of last night’s amateur
excursions.
Clubs
are shuttered
in the light of day,
dark with their
Don’t ask, don’t tell
attitudes.
I am near
with my net
and detector,
searching as always
for meaningless treasure.
Salt dries
on leather
as I secret
my cache,
grains gathered
one by one
in cut glass jar,
remedy now for
broken
hourglasses.
I still hear laughter
from the far off Casino,
long before
Conventions were abandoned,
the round,
smiling clown
against the blue paint,
urging all
to come in and play,
away from
the burning boards.
An albatross soars,
soiling the rusting rails,
low rent paradise
even the Pony abandoned.
Water infected
with flesh-eating foulness,
sun refracting
against endless fog.
It’s 1972,
it’s eternity;
cruising by
Asbury’s rotting piers,
carousel creaking
in the endless turns
of memory.
Rose Morales
(1 poem added 08.03.09)
Shower Scene
Sometimes paper is no place for poetry; its
margins, motifs, schemes— revision—edits
sometimes you only get one shot, don’t miss
so listen for the water—
drawing trots on soft surface:
tanned pigment; the mirror’s
steamed—a lover is
drenched dot by dot
suds & bubbles devour curves
the water rounding the drain
is all the better after
liquid licks down her
nose, elbows and who knows—
I know what else…
The best ends—
for two hands, ten fingers, two lips; a tongue
:
spots soaked; streaks sneak in centimeters
cleanliness: this goddess;
my goodness, her scent
sticks
on towels, toilet paper;
two
toothbrushes
…
Listen—the water—
the veil blankets &
devours her;
dots, steam - sexier than lace
hazy curtains & running water
lust louder than war—
sexed curves,
wet bends—down the ribs…
to trace the steps is to find God &
the old curtain didn’t stop him
She’s poetry &
all for me
Tyler Malone
(1 poem added 08.02.09)
Watching Her Battle
Hiding from behind tree trunks we stared,
Enthralled shadows stood still,
Fighting the generous drops of rain
That descended from the morning sky,
Turning the color of the object
It touched and rolled across.
No one breathed,
For the lady had arrived,
Her body lithe swathed in blue swirls
That cascaded from azure, her long hair
Burgeoning from her perfect head.
The ripples that formed on the lake
As she walked soared from the surface
And eddied around her outstretched arms
In an exquisite juxtaposition
Of form and formation.
No one knew who she was but
Gentle gasps escaped
As a patina of aged dust
Lifted from the ground in
A cataract of fuming gray
And circled above her.
We waited for resistance, agog,
Like we always did every fortnight,
While she gestured, from smooth
To frantic, her eyes stolid in pain,
Engaging the wrath of nature.
She pulled a shard of azure from
her breast and cut a piece of gray
that hissed around her swishing arms.
As the unfolding climax drew closer,
She hesitated, hissed and stopped;
Her equipoise lost, she vanished -
Someone from behind the trees
Had stirred.
Ajay Vishwanathan
(added 08.01.09)
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
Do you see what we mean? It really is a beat-u-til-full day in this swirlyhood. And yes, an even more beat-u-til-full day for some madness! The Poetry Forum is truly buzzin' with madness and it’s living and breathing, an ever evolving and changing entity...so please, please and please, come by the neighborhood and come by as often as you like. Heck, join in on the poetic conversations! We'd love to have ya'.
Your Mad Swirlin' Neighbors,
Johnny O
Chief Mad Man
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
"A man might pass for insane who should see things as they are.” - Ellery Channing
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