The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03.28.10
“Part of being sane, is being a little bit crazy.” Janet Long
Birth Of Insanity (above) by artist and poet Johnny Olson, 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...
•••••••••••
These things happen
your razor blade heart
and green eyes
cold wet sheets
in mid-winter
then morning rolling in
like a pale dog
no coffee
cigarettes gone
then you were finally gone
i believe time tried to take the rest
Joshua Weir
(3 poems added 03.28.10)
editor's note: Here's another one from Josh Weir. A minimalist novella in three stanzas, four singlets and a resonating emptiness. Time takes it all. - mh
•••••••••••
How to Read a Newspaper - A Comprehensive Manual
First of all, are you really sure?
Do you want THAT MUCH to know the news?
Are you indeed willing to endure
Pages on pages of death and abuse?
It's not too late, you can reconsider,
Come on, throw the newspaper away.
Well, if you are a determined reader
Proceed with this manual, OK.
Take a deep breath and plunge into pages,
Scan the titles, don't linger on any text,
Crisis, gunmen, fraud - it's all OUTRAGEOUS,
But really, what did you expect?
Wars, insurgents, hunger, kidnapping -
International news, don't be surprised.
At this stage you may feel UNHAPPY -
But being updated has its price!
After all it's not on your doorstep,
It may reach you, but not today.
May be it's only journalists gossip...
Keep pretending it's FAR AWAY.
Local news, not much better here -
Budget cuttings, pollution, drugs...
Take another deep breath, you hear?
Yes, the newspaper really SUCKS.
So, do you feel worse every moment,
Your blood pressure rising like hell?
Don't be afraid, it's perfectly normal,
You are supposed to be UNWELL.
Sometimes you may be really lucky
To stumble on positive news! You MUST
Concentrate there, it's highly unlikely
That the positive news will last!
You made it safely through all the pages -
Take another deep breath, RELAX.
Hold the newspaper firmly by the edges
And give it to somebody else.
You may feel a certain SATISFACTION
When another victim goes through the news -
Don't worry, this is a natural reaction
When others suffer and not only you.
But be realistic, don't count on this -
It may not work, please be aware:
No matter how dreadful the newspaper is
Some people
JUST
DON'T
CARE.
Irena Pasvinter
(added 03.27.10)
editor's note: Ha, we knew it! Such instruction would have saved us hours and years of monotony and indigestion. Irena could sell this course on a controlled access channel. Or, she could sit in for the talking heads that we see on the networks. Or, maybe she could broadcast via satellite to all readers everywhere. Maybe this could teach us to read more poetry . . . - mh
•••••••••••
THE FIFTH GOSPEL
I believe in lying in bed with my boots on.
I believe in airplanes and turbulence and
Humming birds and neurotic old women,
I believe in making to-do lists
And then
Not doing anything on the list
Or:
If I really want to feel productive
I make a list
filled with things
That I have already done.
Example of a to-do list
by Justin Grimbol:
Sleep in
Wake up
Jerk off
Fight with woman
Eat breakfast
Check email
Take piss
Write poem
I like poems.
They’re short.
most poetry isn’t very good though---
you got guys like Ginsberg talking about
how holy their assholes are.
I like ass. I love ass.
I got a cramp
in my neck
from staring at
So
Much
Ass.
But
That doesn’t mean
There needs to be something holy about it
Ass is good enough as it is.
Sure
Some are better than others.
Some
Are impossible to not get a little religious about.
Some stay in your heart
Like a stun gun
Like a blizzard
Only it’s warm
It’s the inventor, the mad scientist
of all warm things.
I believe in warm things
I believe in sweating
I believe
That people only smell good when they smell bad,
I believe in lukewarm pizza
I always believe it’s going to be a warm winter
Until the first snow fall,
Then I hide in my room
Terrified.
I put my hands under my woman’s breasts and pretend they’re mittens.
the weather channel says we should be expecting 16 inches of snow.
It’s going to be a long winter.
When I was a kid
I felt warm in the snow.
Hell,
I felt a lot of things back then
That I don’t feel now.
When I was a kid
I actually believed that if you beat a video game
That you’d be rewarded with money
That it would come pouring out of the Nintendo
like it was a slot machine.
Why else would they make the games so difficult?
Why would people play these ridiculous games
Unless there was some kind of reward at the end?
I believe in that kind of passion
I believe in how your thumbs hurt
when you played Nintendo for too long.
This poem was written with those same thumbs
I believe in thumbs and chaffed legs
And stretch marks and pregnancy scares
And running out of gas
And all the scratch off tickets that are buried
Under the front seat of my car.
I believe in all those things that make you ask
Was it worth it? And then you shrug your shoulders
Because even if it’s not worth anything
You’re going to keep at it anyway.
You just can’t help yourself.
Justin Grimbol
(added 03.26.10)
editor's note: Aha! Here is a mad, rambling statement of faith I can underline with a grand, "Amen!" I go to that church, too. I don't see anything holy about assholes, either. - mh
•••••••••••
it’s too late
it's too late for girls like me
girls more like their mothers everyday
no one ever told me
i could actually believe things like
you're pretty
no i'm not
you're smart
no i'm not
you can be anything you want to be
no i can't
you will love someday
no i won't
it's raining
and i feel it
in every starched bone of my body
little pools collecting
at ankles
around wrists
in between the dams of teeth
i hiccup and the world earthquakes
there are birds inside of me
all beating their wings
to get out
get out already
Regina C. Green
(added 03.25.10)
editor's note: Who says we have to fulfill the common dream, embrace the pristeen ideal? Not this poet. Disappointment is only the excorcism of demons, "get out already." Ha, ha, ha. Brilliant! - mh
•••••••••••
Spoon in a Landfill
snow crashed heavy on the fill,
a twirling sonata of freeze
settling thick on a jagged pile
of old box televisions and
defunct exercise machines
(amongst everything else solid
and not looking to dissipate)
a cover-up of seasonal weight
adding girth to the mountains
of consumer memory, flashing white
bold and real against a mauve sunset
somewhere in burial rested ghosts of
energy spindled around the little things
that made up his life:
a spoon given to him by his mother
days before dying, she willed it to him
from a cancerous heave, old national geographics
once stacked peacefully next to her
soft blue toilet, the air fresheners that covered
the mothball scent painting the corners
of their old green house
when she shook the spoon
in his direction he was distracted by
the godforsaken cat chasing squirrels up a maple,
or maybe wondering where his next swell of codeine
would emerge, he ignored her explaining the silverware,
she was so wretched and bony in that prescription bed,
he may have never absorbed her intent, but was uplifted
when he realized she had hosts of vicodan
lined up like an army of saviors in the cabinet
where the mirror was so old it sweated ochre reflections
overlooking the hills of waste
he could sense the spoon in there, and other things
carrying her faded life, and in echo form
the moonlight sonata began to loop in his head,
only the first thirteen notes, over and over
as he turned and made his way in a stumble
toward the smokestacks and section eights,
trading the past for piano notes and
the prospect of a dinner uninterrupted by regrets
Shawn R. Misener
(1 poem added 03.24.10)
editor's note: This is a deep, dark memory for all to experience; cathartic (that word sounds like a heart surgeon's procedure). Did we find a spoon in a landfill, or do we have a jagged memory, the size of a landfill, that we can only fill in with a spoon? Both, I think... - mh
•••••••••••
simple as fuck
used to be
that guy
with a bouquet
behind
back
bambi eyed
linen white
soul
mac and cheese
by candlelight
a sucker for bozo love
still am
but a bit more feral
soul like a hornet’s nest
and
a heart full of u-turns
with a wrecking ball disposition
for brick walls
black outs
and
ex prom queen train wrecks
Ernie Culver
(2 poems added 03.22.10)
editor's note: Well, as a sucker for "Bozo love", I can't resist putting this one up for all of us lovers with "Wrecking ball dispositions." Give your love a big wet one, then some flowers! - mh
•••••••••••
No hurry
light pitter-patters on window frame, carriage
rocks gently, I imagine all of the exterior
is drawn in oil pastel like a surreal
cartoon, I’m drawn out of the locomotive
and I paint the sunset in water colour
clouds are low to the world, wandering in
a herd, migrating over the horizon, got their
eyes on the sun
ink dribbles
across my page, the way I like it, got what
I payed for, I’m afraid the train is delayed,
pity, I’m fond of being late
like a dog
befriending a machine, imagination means
I’ve got it made
Will Druce
(added 03.22.10)
editor's note: The Muse takes her own time. This poet makes the most of inspiration from his. Poetry comes to to those who see delay as opportunity. Nice! - 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!
Wow'd,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Great wits are sure to madness near allied - And thin partitions do their bounds divide” John Dryden
Birth Of Insanity (above) by artist and poet Johnny Olson, 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...
•••••••••••
These things happen
your razor blade heart
and green eyes
cold wet sheets
in mid-winter
then morning rolling in
like a pale dog
no coffee
cigarettes gone
then you were finally gone
i believe time tried to take the rest
Joshua Weir
(3 poems added 03.28.10)
editor's note: Here's another one from Josh Weir. A minimalist novella in three stanzas, four singlets and a resonating emptiness. Time takes it all. - mh
•••••••••••
How to Read a Newspaper - A Comprehensive Manual
First of all, are you really sure?
Do you want THAT MUCH to know the news?
Are you indeed willing to endure
Pages on pages of death and abuse?
It's not too late, you can reconsider,
Come on, throw the newspaper away.
Well, if you are a determined reader
Proceed with this manual, OK.
Take a deep breath and plunge into pages,
Scan the titles, don't linger on any text,
Crisis, gunmen, fraud - it's all OUTRAGEOUS,
But really, what did you expect?
Wars, insurgents, hunger, kidnapping -
International news, don't be surprised.
At this stage you may feel UNHAPPY -
But being updated has its price!
After all it's not on your doorstep,
It may reach you, but not today.
May be it's only journalists gossip...
Keep pretending it's FAR AWAY.
Local news, not much better here -
Budget cuttings, pollution, drugs...
Take another deep breath, you hear?
Yes, the newspaper really SUCKS.
So, do you feel worse every moment,
Your blood pressure rising like hell?
Don't be afraid, it's perfectly normal,
You are supposed to be UNWELL.
Sometimes you may be really lucky
To stumble on positive news! You MUST
Concentrate there, it's highly unlikely
That the positive news will last!
You made it safely through all the pages -
Take another deep breath, RELAX.
Hold the newspaper firmly by the edges
And give it to somebody else.
You may feel a certain SATISFACTION
When another victim goes through the news -
Don't worry, this is a natural reaction
When others suffer and not only you.
But be realistic, don't count on this -
It may not work, please be aware:
No matter how dreadful the newspaper is
Some people
JUST
DON'T
CARE.
Irena Pasvinter
(added 03.27.10)
editor's note: Ha, we knew it! Such instruction would have saved us hours and years of monotony and indigestion. Irena could sell this course on a controlled access channel. Or, she could sit in for the talking heads that we see on the networks. Or, maybe she could broadcast via satellite to all readers everywhere. Maybe this could teach us to read more poetry . . . - mh
•••••••••••
THE FIFTH GOSPEL
I believe in lying in bed with my boots on.
I believe in airplanes and turbulence and
Humming birds and neurotic old women,
I believe in making to-do lists
And then
Not doing anything on the list
Or:
If I really want to feel productive
I make a list
filled with things
That I have already done.
Example of a to-do list
by Justin Grimbol:
Sleep in
Wake up
Jerk off
Fight with woman
Eat breakfast
Check email
Take piss
Write poem
I like poems.
They’re short.
most poetry isn’t very good though---
you got guys like Ginsberg talking about
how holy their assholes are.
I like ass. I love ass.
I got a cramp
in my neck
from staring at
So
Much
Ass.
But
That doesn’t mean
There needs to be something holy about it
Ass is good enough as it is.
Sure
Some are better than others.
Some
Are impossible to not get a little religious about.
Some stay in your heart
Like a stun gun
Like a blizzard
Only it’s warm
It’s the inventor, the mad scientist
of all warm things.
I believe in warm things
I believe in sweating
I believe
That people only smell good when they smell bad,
I believe in lukewarm pizza
I always believe it’s going to be a warm winter
Until the first snow fall,
Then I hide in my room
Terrified.
I put my hands under my woman’s breasts and pretend they’re mittens.
the weather channel says we should be expecting 16 inches of snow.
It’s going to be a long winter.
When I was a kid
I felt warm in the snow.
Hell,
I felt a lot of things back then
That I don’t feel now.
When I was a kid
I actually believed that if you beat a video game
That you’d be rewarded with money
That it would come pouring out of the Nintendo
like it was a slot machine.
Why else would they make the games so difficult?
Why would people play these ridiculous games
Unless there was some kind of reward at the end?
I believe in that kind of passion
I believe in how your thumbs hurt
when you played Nintendo for too long.
This poem was written with those same thumbs
I believe in thumbs and chaffed legs
And stretch marks and pregnancy scares
And running out of gas
And all the scratch off tickets that are buried
Under the front seat of my car.
I believe in all those things that make you ask
Was it worth it? And then you shrug your shoulders
Because even if it’s not worth anything
You’re going to keep at it anyway.
You just can’t help yourself.
Justin Grimbol
(added 03.26.10)
editor's note: Aha! Here is a mad, rambling statement of faith I can underline with a grand, "Amen!" I go to that church, too. I don't see anything holy about assholes, either. - mh
•••••••••••
it’s too late
it's too late for girls like me
girls more like their mothers everyday
no one ever told me
i could actually believe things like
you're pretty
no i'm not
you're smart
no i'm not
you can be anything you want to be
no i can't
you will love someday
no i won't
it's raining
and i feel it
in every starched bone of my body
little pools collecting
at ankles
around wrists
in between the dams of teeth
i hiccup and the world earthquakes
there are birds inside of me
all beating their wings
to get out
get out already
Regina C. Green
(added 03.25.10)
editor's note: Who says we have to fulfill the common dream, embrace the pristeen ideal? Not this poet. Disappointment is only the excorcism of demons, "get out already." Ha, ha, ha. Brilliant! - mh
•••••••••••
Spoon in a Landfill
snow crashed heavy on the fill,
a twirling sonata of freeze
settling thick on a jagged pile
of old box televisions and
defunct exercise machines
(amongst everything else solid
and not looking to dissipate)
a cover-up of seasonal weight
adding girth to the mountains
of consumer memory, flashing white
bold and real against a mauve sunset
somewhere in burial rested ghosts of
energy spindled around the little things
that made up his life:
a spoon given to him by his mother
days before dying, she willed it to him
from a cancerous heave, old national geographics
once stacked peacefully next to her
soft blue toilet, the air fresheners that covered
the mothball scent painting the corners
of their old green house
when she shook the spoon
in his direction he was distracted by
the godforsaken cat chasing squirrels up a maple,
or maybe wondering where his next swell of codeine
would emerge, he ignored her explaining the silverware,
she was so wretched and bony in that prescription bed,
he may have never absorbed her intent, but was uplifted
when he realized she had hosts of vicodan
lined up like an army of saviors in the cabinet
where the mirror was so old it sweated ochre reflections
overlooking the hills of waste
he could sense the spoon in there, and other things
carrying her faded life, and in echo form
the moonlight sonata began to loop in his head,
only the first thirteen notes, over and over
as he turned and made his way in a stumble
toward the smokestacks and section eights,
trading the past for piano notes and
the prospect of a dinner uninterrupted by regrets
Shawn R. Misener
(1 poem added 03.24.10)
editor's note: This is a deep, dark memory for all to experience; cathartic (that word sounds like a heart surgeon's procedure). Did we find a spoon in a landfill, or do we have a jagged memory, the size of a landfill, that we can only fill in with a spoon? Both, I think... - mh
•••••••••••
simple as fuck
used to be
that guy
with a bouquet
behind
back
bambi eyed
linen white
soul
mac and cheese
by candlelight
a sucker for bozo love
still am
but a bit more feral
soul like a hornet’s nest
and
a heart full of u-turns
with a wrecking ball disposition
for brick walls
black outs
and
ex prom queen train wrecks
Ernie Culver
(2 poems added 03.22.10)
editor's note: Well, as a sucker for "Bozo love", I can't resist putting this one up for all of us lovers with "Wrecking ball dispositions." Give your love a big wet one, then some flowers! - mh
•••••••••••
No hurry
light pitter-patters on window frame, carriage
rocks gently, I imagine all of the exterior
is drawn in oil pastel like a surreal
cartoon, I’m drawn out of the locomotive
and I paint the sunset in water colour
clouds are low to the world, wandering in
a herd, migrating over the horizon, got their
eyes on the sun
ink dribbles
across my page, the way I like it, got what
I payed for, I’m afraid the train is delayed,
pity, I’m fond of being late
like a dog
befriending a machine, imagination means
I’ve got it made
Will Druce
(added 03.22.10)
editor's note: The Muse takes her own time. This poet makes the most of inspiration from his. Poetry comes to to those who see delay as opportunity. Nice! - 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!
Wow'd,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“Great wits are sure to madness near allied - And thin partitions do their bounds divide” John Dryden
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