The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.15.10
“Are we to paint what's on the face, what's inside the face, or what's behind it?” Pablo Picasso
untitled (above) by our featured artist Christian Millet , one of the maddest of the maddest mad painters of over 20 artists coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective 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...
•••••••••••
SHE WAS LIKE A FIRESTORM
On the night I met her
she was like a firestorm
burning down the factories
in the cities of her memory.
I was from the ice age,
glaciers moving in my veins,
icicles punching through my skin,
passion a forgotten myth.
But need is need,
the body is a grail ready to be filled with heat.
She lit up a candle
and looked down into my eyes.
I thought I saw a desert land
where she was lost and thirsty.
And she was thirsty,
dying of thirst,
and when she sucked me
it turned me inside out.
When she kissed my neck
she tried to inhale me.
When she scratched my back
she tried to open me up.
When she let me in
she tried to take all of me into her.
Lost at sea I almost drowned,
the whole world was water and salt.
She screamed in my ear and shattered my nerves.
I burst a heart inside of her.
I couldn't get loose, I couldn't react.
She flipped me over and melted me down.
Sometime after midnight
when the wind was humming deep,
she started crying
said are you asleep?
Satnrose
(1 poem added 05.15.10)
editor's note: Heat and passion for an ice-age lover, smelted down to water and salt. Still, love cries in the night, craving attention. Exhaustion is not indifference... - mh
•••••••••••
Duet at Tinkune
Dull, dull are the eyes
Of Tinkune
And the hearts worse
Than these dusty roads
And the voices more earsplitting
Than these tooting vehicles, yelling conductors
I remember you, your love for me
It's never smooth, never fresh
A bumpy ride, knackered easily
Yet we love each other
Because we know bliss lies yonder
Dull, dull are the eyes
Of Tinkune
And we're not of the same.
Arun Budhathoki
(2 poems added 05.14.10)
editor's note: I haven't read such exquisite pain in a long time - makes me recall the explosions of my past and seek detente. - mh
•••••••••••
Before I Can Move Forward
Before I can move forward, I need to see you smile.
I need to feel your calloused hands.
I need the real you, for a while.
Before I can move forward, I long to sit and chat.
I don’t want your eyes to be bloodshot.
I miss everything, but that.
Before I can move forward, I cannot forget.
The way you used to tuck me in,
Watching your dangling cigarette.
Before I can move forward, your face I must memorize.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen you Daddy.
Are you ready to apologize?
Ashley Brianne Combs
(added 05.13.10)
editor's note: Childhood memories tied up in unspoken transgressions. All the players know what went down, but to speak of these things - takes a child. Try to return... - mh
•••••••••••
Naming a Nation
At birth, we were given pet names
In school, we begin to have formal names
For some fame, we choose our own style names
Among friends and relatives, we are known by our nicknames
In the literate world, we use our hao or pen names
While we try naming ourselves with all glory and dignity
Foreign barbarians give us unnamed names:
Mangis, Chinks, Chinamen, Chinkies
Chinoiseries, Nuocs, Shina, Chinees
Ching Chong, Coolies
Even blue and grey ants
And so they call us names
In open defiance against Confucius
Our master teacher, our saint, our sage, our literary god
(O poor guy!) ever so obsessed with the Chinese idea:
A proper name for a proper identity
Changming Yuan
(3 poems added 05.12.09)
editor's note: Here's another poem on name-dropping. Perhaps these should be dropped all-together. My Mother leans over and says in her loud whisper, "You know, he was Oriental!" That's supposed to tell me something about the person. What names do we give our name droppers? (More on foreign relations from Changming - check out his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
The Angel and the Garden
I.
This is my gift to my angel divine:
Fields made of gold for this sweet girl of mine,
Flowers that bow as she wades through the grass,
Daisy-chain crowns in her soft hair of brass,
Droplets of dew on the meadow at dawn
Afternoon naps under trees in the lawn,
Burbling brooks that are blue as the skies,
High-climbing ivy as green as her eyes.
II.
Somewhere, away from here, city lights glow.
Fathers are drinking and mothers don’t know.
Smoke fills the air and the streets choke with sin;
Blood flows from wounds caused from bullets within.
Fury and rage feed on weakness and fear.
Somewhere, away from here, yet still so near.
III.
Sleep now, my darling, there’s dreaming to do.
Nothing can harm you, for I am with you.
Safe here in Eden, there’s no need for fright,
Only the cherubim come in the night.
Skip in the pasture and dance in the rain,
Let it take over and wash off the pain,
All of the memories fading away;
Angel, in Eden forever we’ll stay.
Ashley Vemuri
(added 05.11.10)
editor's note: Ah, for such an angel to offer refuge to us all! Of course, I'd be the father drinking while the mother doesn't know, though I'm harmless. There are other beasties from which to hide - where better than such an Eden? And a nice turn of the verse, at that. - mh
•••••••••••
Mankind & Its Kin
awaken your sleeping demons
their dreams are empty
who gives a shit what god thinks?
they will dance next to the fire
and feast upon the weak
carry your rope
as I do
every goddamned day
through every suffering city
all along the internal path of the enlightened way
I drag my rope along my side
of the right hemisphere of my feet
and a trail lingers behind me
of dust and oxygen
beneath uninvented skies
do we hang the man less intelligible?
do we hang the man insane?
could I bleed next to the window?
would I crawl to the door in vain?
I drag my rope
in search of the ugly creature
I must remove from this plane
there must be some force
some invisible hand
scratching against the door
do I open it?
do I ask for more?
for that unholy spirit lifts me to the heavens
and then further lowers me to the belows
do the trees try to tell me something?
their roots must be screaming
for some intangible desert
does the dirt speak my name?
I drag my rope
and I will hang
the fucking nonsense
that dissolves this universe
and that pangs
mankind & its kin
Nicholas Martin
(3 poems added 05.10.10)
editor's note: A much bigger spin on "enough rope" to ponder. We carry one, scrutinizing and deciding what swings and what survives - expelling the beast; or, we swing from our own, toes dangling over over the nonsense that we thought made sense at the time. Sometimes you get the beast - sometimes the beast gets you. (please note more works by Nick Martin on his new page ) - mh
•••••••••••
Lackluster Times
Today I wrote two poems.
Thought about masturbating
but even that has lost its luster
in a time like this.
I ate 5 day old pizza from the fridge.
Accidentally broke my last beer on the floor
and stood in the cold aftermath.
Patricia called and wanted to come over.
I told her not to.
She's a nymphomaniac.
But just like masturbating
nymphos too have lost their luster
in a time like this.
Actually.
On second thought
I think I'll call her back.
Philip Ledford
(added 05.09.10)
editor's note: With the right hand, or the left, it's all the same finish. On second thought...I think I'll read this poem again. (sigh) - 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 here...
Stay Mad,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
untitled (above) by our featured artist Christian Millet , one of the maddest of the maddest mad painters of over 20 artists coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective 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...
•••••••••••
SHE WAS LIKE A FIRESTORM
On the night I met her
she was like a firestorm
burning down the factories
in the cities of her memory.
I was from the ice age,
glaciers moving in my veins,
icicles punching through my skin,
passion a forgotten myth.
But need is need,
the body is a grail ready to be filled with heat.
She lit up a candle
and looked down into my eyes.
I thought I saw a desert land
where she was lost and thirsty.
And she was thirsty,
dying of thirst,
and when she sucked me
it turned me inside out.
When she kissed my neck
she tried to inhale me.
When she scratched my back
she tried to open me up.
When she let me in
she tried to take all of me into her.
Lost at sea I almost drowned,
the whole world was water and salt.
She screamed in my ear and shattered my nerves.
I burst a heart inside of her.
I couldn't get loose, I couldn't react.
She flipped me over and melted me down.
Sometime after midnight
when the wind was humming deep,
she started crying
said are you asleep?
Satnrose
(1 poem added 05.15.10)
editor's note: Heat and passion for an ice-age lover, smelted down to water and salt. Still, love cries in the night, craving attention. Exhaustion is not indifference... - mh
•••••••••••
Duet at Tinkune
Dull, dull are the eyes
Of Tinkune
And the hearts worse
Than these dusty roads
And the voices more earsplitting
Than these tooting vehicles, yelling conductors
I remember you, your love for me
It's never smooth, never fresh
A bumpy ride, knackered easily
Yet we love each other
Because we know bliss lies yonder
Dull, dull are the eyes
Of Tinkune
And we're not of the same.
Arun Budhathoki
(2 poems added 05.14.10)
editor's note: I haven't read such exquisite pain in a long time - makes me recall the explosions of my past and seek detente. - mh
•••••••••••
Before I Can Move Forward
Before I can move forward, I need to see you smile.
I need to feel your calloused hands.
I need the real you, for a while.
Before I can move forward, I long to sit and chat.
I don’t want your eyes to be bloodshot.
I miss everything, but that.
Before I can move forward, I cannot forget.
The way you used to tuck me in,
Watching your dangling cigarette.
Before I can move forward, your face I must memorize.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen you Daddy.
Are you ready to apologize?
Ashley Brianne Combs
(added 05.13.10)
editor's note: Childhood memories tied up in unspoken transgressions. All the players know what went down, but to speak of these things - takes a child. Try to return... - mh
•••••••••••
Naming a Nation
At birth, we were given pet names
In school, we begin to have formal names
For some fame, we choose our own style names
Among friends and relatives, we are known by our nicknames
In the literate world, we use our hao or pen names
While we try naming ourselves with all glory and dignity
Foreign barbarians give us unnamed names:
Mangis, Chinks, Chinamen, Chinkies
Chinoiseries, Nuocs, Shina, Chinees
Ching Chong, Coolies
Even blue and grey ants
And so they call us names
In open defiance against Confucius
Our master teacher, our saint, our sage, our literary god
(O poor guy!) ever so obsessed with the Chinese idea:
A proper name for a proper identity
Changming Yuan
(3 poems added 05.12.09)
editor's note: Here's another poem on name-dropping. Perhaps these should be dropped all-together. My Mother leans over and says in her loud whisper, "You know, he was Oriental!" That's supposed to tell me something about the person. What names do we give our name droppers? (More on foreign relations from Changming - check out his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
The Angel and the Garden
I.
This is my gift to my angel divine:
Fields made of gold for this sweet girl of mine,
Flowers that bow as she wades through the grass,
Daisy-chain crowns in her soft hair of brass,
Droplets of dew on the meadow at dawn
Afternoon naps under trees in the lawn,
Burbling brooks that are blue as the skies,
High-climbing ivy as green as her eyes.
II.
Somewhere, away from here, city lights glow.
Fathers are drinking and mothers don’t know.
Smoke fills the air and the streets choke with sin;
Blood flows from wounds caused from bullets within.
Fury and rage feed on weakness and fear.
Somewhere, away from here, yet still so near.
III.
Sleep now, my darling, there’s dreaming to do.
Nothing can harm you, for I am with you.
Safe here in Eden, there’s no need for fright,
Only the cherubim come in the night.
Skip in the pasture and dance in the rain,
Let it take over and wash off the pain,
All of the memories fading away;
Angel, in Eden forever we’ll stay.
Ashley Vemuri
(added 05.11.10)
editor's note: Ah, for such an angel to offer refuge to us all! Of course, I'd be the father drinking while the mother doesn't know, though I'm harmless. There are other beasties from which to hide - where better than such an Eden? And a nice turn of the verse, at that. - mh
•••••••••••
Mankind & Its Kin
awaken your sleeping demons
their dreams are empty
who gives a shit what god thinks?
they will dance next to the fire
and feast upon the weak
carry your rope
as I do
every goddamned day
through every suffering city
all along the internal path of the enlightened way
I drag my rope along my side
of the right hemisphere of my feet
and a trail lingers behind me
of dust and oxygen
beneath uninvented skies
do we hang the man less intelligible?
do we hang the man insane?
could I bleed next to the window?
would I crawl to the door in vain?
I drag my rope
in search of the ugly creature
I must remove from this plane
there must be some force
some invisible hand
scratching against the door
do I open it?
do I ask for more?
for that unholy spirit lifts me to the heavens
and then further lowers me to the belows
do the trees try to tell me something?
their roots must be screaming
for some intangible desert
does the dirt speak my name?
I drag my rope
and I will hang
the fucking nonsense
that dissolves this universe
and that pangs
mankind & its kin
Nicholas Martin
(3 poems added 05.10.10)
editor's note: A much bigger spin on "enough rope" to ponder. We carry one, scrutinizing and deciding what swings and what survives - expelling the beast; or, we swing from our own, toes dangling over over the nonsense that we thought made sense at the time. Sometimes you get the beast - sometimes the beast gets you. (please note more works by Nick Martin on his new page ) - mh
•••••••••••
Lackluster Times
Today I wrote two poems.
Thought about masturbating
but even that has lost its luster
in a time like this.
I ate 5 day old pizza from the fridge.
Accidentally broke my last beer on the floor
and stood in the cold aftermath.
Patricia called and wanted to come over.
I told her not to.
She's a nymphomaniac.
But just like masturbating
nymphos too have lost their luster
in a time like this.
Actually.
On second thought
I think I'll call her back.
Philip Ledford
(added 05.09.10)
editor's note: With the right hand, or the left, it's all the same finish. On second thought...I think I'll read this poem again. (sigh) - 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 here...
Stay Mad,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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