The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.21.10
"Be touched by the beautiful anxiety of life." Rainer Maria Rilke
Dancing in da street (above) by photographer Kristin Fouquet, 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...
•••••••••••
Life
You are very inexplicable, I can’t delineate you.
You are very extreme, I can’t accomplish you.
You are with me, I can’t discern you.
Why you are a dispute!
You are at abyss, I want to convene you.
You are at acme, I want to scale you.
You are at Varsity, I want to predict you.
Why you are abstract!
Are you contentment in security?
Then who is Socrates for you?
Are you of divinity?
Then who is Nietzsche for you?
You are with meager governess.
Then what is spar for you?
You are with scholar.
Then what is cacophony for you?
Chiranjibi Niroula
(added 02.21.10)
editor's note: These are the questions we don't often ask, but the answers may be transforming, redirecting. This poet asks these questions of Life, or maybe the poet asks them of you. Hmmmm. - mh
•••••••••••
Waters of Dispassion
Children, water evokes at your swollen feet
A calamitous trap reflects no escape
Clouds wash epidemic rain across the plains
And cover the world's eyes
in forgotten plight.
Insects contaminated droplets of mist destroy the future
Seeds of disease interrupt your destiny to grow
Sunken despondent eyes cry tears of malaria
An illusion of who you are and
never will become
Kinship with no one the warm earth waits
The lens of history records a fictional play
Betrayal masked in far away luxuries
Dead bodies of apathy
kisses and blankets.
Carl Scharwath
(added 02.20.10)
editor's note: This is a stirring call to WAKE UP. Makes my blanket uncomfortably scratchy. - mh
•••••••••••
Four Years of Solitude
it's hard
to be alone
in silence
when you want
to be alive
you want music
when you want
to be dead you want
the orange pop & crackle
of a warm flame
silent
alone
with the heater next to your
body
a blanket wrapped around
the knees
behind the darkness
behind the curtains
a string of lights
hanging more like defeated breasts
than a jack o lantern smile
the holiday chocolate next to
a shelf full of books
on human disease
you want to be alive
you want to be alone
you want to sit
in a golden circle with
severed arms
and a loving heart
beating blood to a brain
afire.
Justin Wade Thompson
(added 02.19.10)
editor's note: Feel these images; eyes closed, feel the warmth, hear the music. Understand the peace that comes from solitutude and your beating heart and the recognition of failed things; but never failure. - mh
•••••••••••
My Getaway
Nobody knows
My secret private place,
Where I escape from
The noise of the city,
From work that is never finished,
From telephone calls,
Even from seeing
My friends.
I do not allow people
To visit, bother and
Spoil the harmony.
Travel agencies
Do not sell accommodations
For my hideout land, because
This land is my inside:
My soul and my heart.
It is only you
Whom I let in -
To share the bliss.
Farida Samerkhanova
(added 02.18.10)
editor's note: An intimate peek into into this poet's secret place. How lucky to be the one who shares the bliss!!! How great to be reminded that we can do the same - but, as the poet said, "Travel agencies do not sell accommodations," we'll have to procure our own. - mh
•••••••••••
until I read
a soft purple stone
or a newspaper,
watch the sunset
or stand on a mountain, I have nothing—
I am a wristwatch: monotone
and worse
I don’t have anything
to say
that hasn’t been said
within a day or two.
don’t toss coins into a lake.
don’t drink wine
from a coat pocket.
don’t walk with trees that are concerned.
who have you been talking to?
tell me what they said,
Tell Me!
of all the things
that come and go
you tell time the worst—
this has to change the way
that we think about things.
No duality.
the spirit of the wind
exists,
but not separate from the wind.
there is a door that is opening
and closing ceaselessly—
and I hear the same sound
from a candle
or a crowd of people
or a car passing.
or a wristwatch.
underminer of faith,
murderer of belief,
flower of wisdom,
drain the blood
from my legs
and replace it with sawdust
from before the fever
of the ocean.
how many times in a day
do I notice
the sound of my fingers?
I sit before a candle
consumed with the ticking of a wristwatch—
not images
but the fading of images.
and then my body becomes a bag—
I like to be free of it—but
I can’t seem to separate the two!
what happens to the song
of a bird
if there is no
bird?
this is a very complicated
question
and there are many wrong answers.
:be careful:
My wine glass is empty
and the wax of the candle
is my body melting,
beneath the flame
I am shadows
—and near proximity,
smaller than a room,
more quiet
and much closer to home.
(12.21.09)
Chris Hamilton
(1 poem added 02.17.10)
editor's note: "This is cynical and warm and full of wisdom, yet no wisdom; all distilled to the smallest quiet. Dreams don't need to shatter when they can morph. And now I know, I'll never drink wine from my coat pocket." - mh
•••••••••••
Never
Happy Never Gonna Be A Father's Day
never gonna end up goin back to school
welcome to almost minimum wage unskilled labor
dead end waitin for the break that ain't comin
check to check renting a place you can't afford
with no one waitin up for you when you get home
Happy Never Gonna Be A Writer's Day
got the drinking problem and the lonely
yeah that's a pretty good start but
ten years now you still working on that book?
Shannon Peil
(added 02.16.10)
editor's note: "This is a movie starring Everyman as you and me and those things we always meant to be but just haven't got around to, yet. Sadness is better spread than solitary - sweet!" - mh
•••••••••••
Half Moon Lake
Gold winter grasses reflect the harrier
flying low
like my ghost caught in its silent throat.
The vibrance of bare trees rocks me to sleep,
still walking the flood paths
to the graveyard beside Half Moon Lake.
My ancestors echo
where the rushing stream enters to rest.
I thrust my hands into the freezing water
and retrieve healing stones
melting over my eyelids and mouth.
The cipher sky adored reborn every instant
of my living breath
over her pillow of fragrant leaves and bones,
the day distilled is only the crush of longing.
John Swain
(added 02.15.10)
editor's note: "This is beautifully nostalgic and mystic; one with nature and ancestors and the icy cleansing is so tangible. With everything brought down to 'the crush of longing.' Did I say, 'Beautiful?'" - mh
•••••••••••
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!
Your Swirly Servants
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Poetry is the utterance of deep and heart-felt truth -- the true poet is very near the oracle.” Edwin Hubbell Chapin
Dancing in da street (above) by photographer Kristin Fouquet, 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...
•••••••••••
Life
You are very inexplicable, I can’t delineate you.
You are very extreme, I can’t accomplish you.
You are with me, I can’t discern you.
Why you are a dispute!
You are at abyss, I want to convene you.
You are at acme, I want to scale you.
You are at Varsity, I want to predict you.
Why you are abstract!
Are you contentment in security?
Then who is Socrates for you?
Are you of divinity?
Then who is Nietzsche for you?
You are with meager governess.
Then what is spar for you?
You are with scholar.
Then what is cacophony for you?
Chiranjibi Niroula
(added 02.21.10)
editor's note: These are the questions we don't often ask, but the answers may be transforming, redirecting. This poet asks these questions of Life, or maybe the poet asks them of you. Hmmmm. - mh
•••••••••••
Waters of Dispassion
Children, water evokes at your swollen feet
A calamitous trap reflects no escape
Clouds wash epidemic rain across the plains
And cover the world's eyes
in forgotten plight.
Insects contaminated droplets of mist destroy the future
Seeds of disease interrupt your destiny to grow
Sunken despondent eyes cry tears of malaria
An illusion of who you are and
never will become
Kinship with no one the warm earth waits
The lens of history records a fictional play
Betrayal masked in far away luxuries
Dead bodies of apathy
kisses and blankets.
Carl Scharwath
(added 02.20.10)
editor's note: This is a stirring call to WAKE UP. Makes my blanket uncomfortably scratchy. - mh
•••••••••••
Four Years of Solitude
it's hard
to be alone
in silence
when you want
to be alive
you want music
when you want
to be dead you want
the orange pop & crackle
of a warm flame
silent
alone
with the heater next to your
body
a blanket wrapped around
the knees
behind the darkness
behind the curtains
a string of lights
hanging more like defeated breasts
than a jack o lantern smile
the holiday chocolate next to
a shelf full of books
on human disease
you want to be alive
you want to be alone
you want to sit
in a golden circle with
severed arms
and a loving heart
beating blood to a brain
afire.
Justin Wade Thompson
(added 02.19.10)
editor's note: Feel these images; eyes closed, feel the warmth, hear the music. Understand the peace that comes from solitutude and your beating heart and the recognition of failed things; but never failure. - mh
•••••••••••
My Getaway
Nobody knows
My secret private place,
Where I escape from
The noise of the city,
From work that is never finished,
From telephone calls,
Even from seeing
My friends.
I do not allow people
To visit, bother and
Spoil the harmony.
Travel agencies
Do not sell accommodations
For my hideout land, because
This land is my inside:
My soul and my heart.
It is only you
Whom I let in -
To share the bliss.
Farida Samerkhanova
(added 02.18.10)
editor's note: An intimate peek into into this poet's secret place. How lucky to be the one who shares the bliss!!! How great to be reminded that we can do the same - but, as the poet said, "Travel agencies do not sell accommodations," we'll have to procure our own. - mh
•••••••••••
until I read
a soft purple stone
or a newspaper,
watch the sunset
or stand on a mountain, I have nothing—
I am a wristwatch: monotone
and worse
I don’t have anything
to say
that hasn’t been said
within a day or two.
don’t toss coins into a lake.
don’t drink wine
from a coat pocket.
don’t walk with trees that are concerned.
who have you been talking to?
tell me what they said,
Tell Me!
of all the things
that come and go
you tell time the worst—
this has to change the way
that we think about things.
No duality.
the spirit of the wind
exists,
but not separate from the wind.
there is a door that is opening
and closing ceaselessly—
and I hear the same sound
from a candle
or a crowd of people
or a car passing.
or a wristwatch.
underminer of faith,
murderer of belief,
flower of wisdom,
drain the blood
from my legs
and replace it with sawdust
from before the fever
of the ocean.
how many times in a day
do I notice
the sound of my fingers?
I sit before a candle
consumed with the ticking of a wristwatch—
not images
but the fading of images.
and then my body becomes a bag—
I like to be free of it—but
I can’t seem to separate the two!
what happens to the song
of a bird
if there is no
bird?
this is a very complicated
question
and there are many wrong answers.
:be careful:
My wine glass is empty
and the wax of the candle
is my body melting,
beneath the flame
I am shadows
—and near proximity,
smaller than a room,
more quiet
and much closer to home.
(12.21.09)
Chris Hamilton
(1 poem added 02.17.10)
editor's note: "This is cynical and warm and full of wisdom, yet no wisdom; all distilled to the smallest quiet. Dreams don't need to shatter when they can morph. And now I know, I'll never drink wine from my coat pocket." - mh
•••••••••••
Never
Happy Never Gonna Be A Father's Day
never gonna end up goin back to school
welcome to almost minimum wage unskilled labor
dead end waitin for the break that ain't comin
check to check renting a place you can't afford
with no one waitin up for you when you get home
Happy Never Gonna Be A Writer's Day
got the drinking problem and the lonely
yeah that's a pretty good start but
ten years now you still working on that book?
Shannon Peil
(added 02.16.10)
editor's note: "This is a movie starring Everyman as you and me and those things we always meant to be but just haven't got around to, yet. Sadness is better spread than solitary - sweet!" - mh
•••••••••••
Half Moon Lake
Gold winter grasses reflect the harrier
flying low
like my ghost caught in its silent throat.
The vibrance of bare trees rocks me to sleep,
still walking the flood paths
to the graveyard beside Half Moon Lake.
My ancestors echo
where the rushing stream enters to rest.
I thrust my hands into the freezing water
and retrieve healing stones
melting over my eyelids and mouth.
The cipher sky adored reborn every instant
of my living breath
over her pillow of fragrant leaves and bones,
the day distilled is only the crush of longing.
John Swain
(added 02.15.10)
editor's note: "This is beautifully nostalgic and mystic; one with nature and ancestors and the icy cleansing is so tangible. With everything brought down to 'the crush of longing.' Did I say, 'Beautiful?'" - mh
•••••••••••
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!
Your Swirly Servants
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Poetry is the utterance of deep and heart-felt truth -- the true poet is very near the oracle.” Edwin Hubbell Chapin
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