A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 01.09.10
"We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have, our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task, the rest is the madness of art." Henry James
Innuendo (above) by photographer Peter Schwartz, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's eclectic Mad Gallery.
Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
No Apparent Reason
He pounds the table in an exaggerated, dramatic way to capture full attention. It works. His “important” announcement pertains to an accomplishment of his—achieved by luck and circumstance—of course. To be honest, I ceased paying attention once his table-pounding, circus act stopped. This self-absorbed jerk is a specimen in my life-long study of humanity. I’m discovering what a f-ed-up category of animal humans really are. Observing Mr. Look-At-Me and the host of believers, makes me wonder if there’s anyone among us who isn’t a bundle of insecurities and self-doubt? Reflexively, I check the collar of my cornflower blue button-down shirt. I startle when I discover that one side is not buttoned. Damn! Damn! DAMN! How could I have missed it? Damn, I hope no one notices. I’m not vain—I just wish to blend in, unnoticed. Having one side of a collar unbuttoned draws attention. I don’t like attention. I want to be anonymous…invisible. A nobody. My goal is to be a face in the crowd…to fall into the category of “and there were others,” when someone describes the “who” in who was there and then adds, and there were others.
gray suit
he stares straight and fingers
pocket change
- Jeffrey Winke
(1 haibun added 01.09.10)
•••••••••••
The Unfinished
Is better left
so
than gulped down
like a cherry Slurpee
the kids on Chickawa Street
choke down, brain freeze and all,
every day
after school
at 3 p.m. sharp.
The Native Americans knew
perfection
should never be attempted
or achieved
and always left an imperfection
in any and all
woven goods for cover,
protection from the elements,
and their Gods.
Which you are to me.
I cannot
face the ending
of your epic, your ultimate work,
a book of prose,
of tales tall
and thinly veiled
life's tragedies.
So I sit here.
Once again.
In the dark
hung on the penultimate act
instead of tasting your final words
the ones you typed into the manuscript
before you shot yourself
with heroin
one final time
in the Motel 8 bathtub.
If I were to swallow whole
like Jonah's whale,
the last morsel, nugget
of your best stories
what would I have to look forward to
in those morbidly dark, cold moments
with the power turned off
for bills left unpaid
and the thought of you,
the lust for release -
conclusion
of your final words -
were no longer
salvation
to me?
I suppose one day
I'll need to feed upon
your flesh and bones
to satiate my hunger
when there's nothing
in the bookshelves
but Kierkegaard, Nietzsche or Dante.
But when that day passes,
I'll have nothing left
in my life
to savor
and hope for
on the lonely afternoons
except
for what makes
little boy's dreams
come true . . .
- Joseph D. DiLella
(3 poems added 01.08.10)
•••••••••••
Garden Dirt Talk
with mud on your nose
you explained the theory of double digging
preparing a plot to plant potatoes
and talking about such things
as chitting and cultivation
you’re a single flower
holding a dibble stick
chatting about fertilisation
seeds and crop rotation
and i was left watching you toil away
in wellington boots
and a skimpy top
somehow the conversation includes
girdling suckers
forcing and spores
you mentioned hardening off
before planting out in the bed
i’m thinking
printed daisy polycotton
this has got to stop
right now
as this was going to be a serious poem
using your beauty and devotion
in nurturing those tender plants
as a metaphor for mother nature
but somehow it went all
benny hill and double entendre
next we’ll be talking rooting hormones
- P.A.Levy
(added 01.07.10)
•••••••••••
Inner Child
you got a lousy rainbow
so what
sure as bad weather
there will be another
and your chariot
busted down
and never swung
low to carry you home
stop hanging on
to threads
leading to kites
in lightning clouds
you didn’t
discover eccentricity
nobody your age
should still be pulling
a red wagon
filled with flyaway weeds
dandelion dreams
stop trying to be
the Pied Piper
of the Peter Pan principal
as dragons
drag you down
through dungeons
of despair
when will
you grow
up and discover
that tree growing
in Brooklyn
and that
secret Garden
State highway
to adulthood
where like
Robin Hood
you can steal
from the richness
of your childhood
to give to
your poor
attempt at
maturity
- Ivan Jenson
(added 01.06.10)
•••••••••••
Stared Into Dawn
In my dream you dreamt
You felt the heat of me
Against the strength and
Shelter of you.
My tendrils swept within
The hues of your shadow
That sculptured our bodies
In intimate detail.
In my dream you dreamt
I touched you,
Your body arched with
Instinctive desire.
Bodies wanting more, yet
More was not enough.
No words needed in this
Primitive Feast.
No games. No rules. No decorum.
We lay tangled, spent.
He said, "you smile in your sleep."
Startled I pondered if he knew
Of the dream I dreamt of you.
I turned away and
Stared into Dawn.
- Paula Dawn Lietz © 2009
(added 01.05.10)
•••••••••••
The Rotten, Pickled, Fish-Eyes and the Women Who Loved Them... A Screaming Jerry Springer Love-Fest...
"Don't show 'em yer hootenanny!!!" screamed a highly ed-u-cafied, hillbilly lady..., a compromisational creative medium met me medium way to the shape of a block on the merry, march towards death, we the creative hop and skip towards perception minus less than abstract creative contractions..., the death of creative inquiry is all around..., ego-encouraged movements should not be permitted to use artificial transportations..., I need a holster for my notebooks, for I write wild smoke and light-beams...
- Eric J. Brinovec
(1 poem added 01.04.10)
•••••••••••
Voice
All I need is a voice.
To scream.
To whisper.
To communicate.
I can close my mind
or
block my ears,
but still
I can discern
the voice.
It gravels in the brain.
Forcing me to communicate.
With you.
With me.
With anyone slipping by.
I'm in a vacuum.
It follows me.
Insistent.
Demanding.
Forcing me to confront myself.
My breath escapes me
across the spaces of distance.
Razor sharp mind
dulled by
inactivity.
My mind is raw.
I must stop using my voice,
my whispers,
as arrows
- Chris G. Vaillancourt
(added 01.03.10)
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be there!
Handclapping & Fingersnapping,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone's knowledge of himself and the world around him.” Dylan Thomas
Innuendo (above) by photographer Peter Schwartz, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's eclectic Mad Gallery.
Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
No Apparent Reason
He pounds the table in an exaggerated, dramatic way to capture full attention. It works. His “important” announcement pertains to an accomplishment of his—achieved by luck and circumstance—of course. To be honest, I ceased paying attention once his table-pounding, circus act stopped. This self-absorbed jerk is a specimen in my life-long study of humanity. I’m discovering what a f-ed-up category of animal humans really are. Observing Mr. Look-At-Me and the host of believers, makes me wonder if there’s anyone among us who isn’t a bundle of insecurities and self-doubt? Reflexively, I check the collar of my cornflower blue button-down shirt. I startle when I discover that one side is not buttoned. Damn! Damn! DAMN! How could I have missed it? Damn, I hope no one notices. I’m not vain—I just wish to blend in, unnoticed. Having one side of a collar unbuttoned draws attention. I don’t like attention. I want to be anonymous…invisible. A nobody. My goal is to be a face in the crowd…to fall into the category of “and there were others,” when someone describes the “who” in who was there and then adds, and there were others.
gray suit
he stares straight and fingers
pocket change
- Jeffrey Winke
(1 haibun added 01.09.10)
•••••••••••
The Unfinished
Is better left
so
than gulped down
like a cherry Slurpee
the kids on Chickawa Street
choke down, brain freeze and all,
every day
after school
at 3 p.m. sharp.
The Native Americans knew
perfection
should never be attempted
or achieved
and always left an imperfection
in any and all
woven goods for cover,
protection from the elements,
and their Gods.
Which you are to me.
I cannot
face the ending
of your epic, your ultimate work,
a book of prose,
of tales tall
and thinly veiled
life's tragedies.
So I sit here.
Once again.
In the dark
hung on the penultimate act
instead of tasting your final words
the ones you typed into the manuscript
before you shot yourself
with heroin
one final time
in the Motel 8 bathtub.
If I were to swallow whole
like Jonah's whale,
the last morsel, nugget
of your best stories
what would I have to look forward to
in those morbidly dark, cold moments
with the power turned off
for bills left unpaid
and the thought of you,
the lust for release -
conclusion
of your final words -
were no longer
salvation
to me?
I suppose one day
I'll need to feed upon
your flesh and bones
to satiate my hunger
when there's nothing
in the bookshelves
but Kierkegaard, Nietzsche or Dante.
But when that day passes,
I'll have nothing left
in my life
to savor
and hope for
on the lonely afternoons
except
for what makes
little boy's dreams
come true . . .
- Joseph D. DiLella
(3 poems added 01.08.10)
•••••••••••
Garden Dirt Talk
with mud on your nose
you explained the theory of double digging
preparing a plot to plant potatoes
and talking about such things
as chitting and cultivation
you’re a single flower
holding a dibble stick
chatting about fertilisation
seeds and crop rotation
and i was left watching you toil away
in wellington boots
and a skimpy top
somehow the conversation includes
girdling suckers
forcing and spores
you mentioned hardening off
before planting out in the bed
i’m thinking
printed daisy polycotton
this has got to stop
right now
as this was going to be a serious poem
using your beauty and devotion
in nurturing those tender plants
as a metaphor for mother nature
but somehow it went all
benny hill and double entendre
next we’ll be talking rooting hormones
- P.A.Levy
(added 01.07.10)
•••••••••••
Inner Child
you got a lousy rainbow
so what
sure as bad weather
there will be another
and your chariot
busted down
and never swung
low to carry you home
stop hanging on
to threads
leading to kites
in lightning clouds
you didn’t
discover eccentricity
nobody your age
should still be pulling
a red wagon
filled with flyaway weeds
dandelion dreams
stop trying to be
the Pied Piper
of the Peter Pan principal
as dragons
drag you down
through dungeons
of despair
when will
you grow
up and discover
that tree growing
in Brooklyn
and that
secret Garden
State highway
to adulthood
where like
Robin Hood
you can steal
from the richness
of your childhood
to give to
your poor
attempt at
maturity
- Ivan Jenson
(added 01.06.10)
•••••••••••
Stared Into Dawn
In my dream you dreamt
You felt the heat of me
Against the strength and
Shelter of you.
My tendrils swept within
The hues of your shadow
That sculptured our bodies
In intimate detail.
In my dream you dreamt
I touched you,
Your body arched with
Instinctive desire.
Bodies wanting more, yet
More was not enough.
No words needed in this
Primitive Feast.
No games. No rules. No decorum.
We lay tangled, spent.
He said, "you smile in your sleep."
Startled I pondered if he knew
Of the dream I dreamt of you.
I turned away and
Stared into Dawn.
- Paula Dawn Lietz © 2009
(added 01.05.10)
•••••••••••
The Rotten, Pickled, Fish-Eyes and the Women Who Loved Them... A Screaming Jerry Springer Love-Fest...
"Don't show 'em yer hootenanny!!!" screamed a highly ed-u-cafied, hillbilly lady..., a compromisational creative medium met me medium way to the shape of a block on the merry, march towards death, we the creative hop and skip towards perception minus less than abstract creative contractions..., the death of creative inquiry is all around..., ego-encouraged movements should not be permitted to use artificial transportations..., I need a holster for my notebooks, for I write wild smoke and light-beams...
- Eric J. Brinovec
(1 poem added 01.04.10)
•••••••••••
Voice
All I need is a voice.
To scream.
To whisper.
To communicate.
I can close my mind
or
block my ears,
but still
I can discern
the voice.
It gravels in the brain.
Forcing me to communicate.
With you.
With me.
With anyone slipping by.
I'm in a vacuum.
It follows me.
Insistent.
Demanding.
Forcing me to confront myself.
My breath escapes me
across the spaces of distance.
Razor sharp mind
dulled by
inactivity.
My mind is raw.
I must stop using my voice,
my whispers,
as arrows
- Chris G. Vaillancourt
(added 01.03.10)
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be there!
Handclapping & Fingersnapping,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone's knowledge of himself and the world around him.” Dylan Thomas
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