The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.17.10
“We are all alike, on the inside.” Mark Twain
Meditations on Life (above) by Johnny Olson , one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
Every once in a great while we here at Mad Swirl take a break. Sometimes these breaks are planned, sometimes they are not. Sometimes they come when we don't know we need them but end up finding out that we really do. This last break was one of those times. But the ol' swirling tanks are filled once again and here we are with a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Tribute to the Smoke Girl
Between her white fingers
The soporific Marlboro
burns, burns
Staining her lips, eyes
soul, soul
And the puffs she inhales
Tow her beauty, age
Between her white fingers
Life turns to ash, ash
I stoop and amass her lips, eyes
soul, soul
And burn it at home
Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 07.17.10)
editor's note: Hmmmmm. Who's got the bad habit here? - mh
•••••••••••
A Painterly Opinion
Let it be known
that in the eyes
of certain gods
everything you do
in your painting
is perfect
but in ours
to which gods gave
freedom of discernment
they remark
your technique
is hesitant.
It is about
the excessive
bleeding magenta
and the dotty impression
your bristled soul
projects.
Alex Nodopaka
(added 07.16.10)
editor's note: We like honesty, especially when our readers are honestly impressed! But, if we're going to ask, be prepared... some won't like our choice of color. - mh
•••••••••••
Mothers' Night
cascading shards uneasy echoes
falling
Rape of Earth, hot spurts of words savage knives abiding Mothers, sacred and mundane twist into harridan cold stars
wailing, hurtling waves Sad, old, crust of ages sliced and screwed, carved up for profit "It's not the color of the skin, the culture of the smile" the scent of danger, the inborn stranger -- all excuses for Us (superior) and Them (inferior) "They are not like we; but lower curs." we may harm with unfettered glee Cursed to be ours, cut to our requirement. Keep them from our (property)(security) Leave them to our putrid pits cunning jabs, our pleasure.
Thus all treasure that might regale, heal, reveal true worth, of man and Earth sold for pittance of potash to dance a weary jig
Laurie Corzett
(added 07.08.10)
editor's note: Too much, we dance the weary jig... are we tired, yet? - mh
•••••••••••
NIGHT SOUNDS
Maple leaves tap rain gutters.
A tractor-trailer
pants
in a diner parking lot.
A tomcat removes
his bloody bandage.
A robin abruptly chirps and whistles
in the middle
of a carnal dream.
Eighteen seconds later
a train honks.
Crickets
form a revolutionary congress
below forsythia,
faded shingles,
and a 1920’s streetlamp
leaning against a sulfur breeze
whose kisses of fireflies
have only hours
to survive.
Miles away the chemical train
moans like a cow.
Alan Britt
(added 07.07.10)
editor's note: Damn these poets! Isn't it like them to peel back the layers of ordinary experience to reveal the most disturbing things? Walk through your garden after dark and listen . . . then run when the crickets start up. They want redistribution of your wealth. Now, think about what a cricket would consider "wealth." Then run faster! - mh
•••••••••••
Black (hole) Power
Suck it up, everything
and tell no one, most importantly
where the things we haven’t seen
have gone.
This is Black hole Power
Away, a silent sucking occurs
A celestial mouth opens
Deforming space-time
Its dark breath inhales
Mercilessly and so, into this
everything must go.
Does it hum low
While devouring; maiming matter
It drinks of space like water
Makes a mockery of stars that glow and
Strikes awe into teens on rooftops
Staring from dilated spheres, up at larger spheres
Gets us even higher
Hovering, they seem the biggest thing
Twinkle twinkle little giants!
As Black hole Power hurries forth
To swallow/eat your dream.
Ravenous without conscious will
A metaphor for never to return
Like when my heart fell
Under your power, and spun
quite unstoppably, to be sucked toward
Your junky soul
(The blackest hole)
Tell no one, most importantly.
Meg Frances
(added 07.06.10)
editor's note: We are comets, colliding in cosmic, coital climax; clearly succumbing to the clutches of this event horizon. We're addicted to the pull. Shhhhhhhh... - mh
•••••••••••
As I Wait to Hear from Her
The words are moist
The words are hard
The words are a ball of kitty-string
Consisting of
A stripper with
5 years experience – maybe only three
Of you, me
Of jail time
Of this damn wobbly chair
Supporting my pill-filled stomach
Of Nick Cave writing with a needle
Dangling from his horror-filled arm
And
I have given up on the pen
For it is ridiculous
To me
Sitting there, somewhere,
Nowhere, and jotting nonsense
That I will never use again.
But
So is this
So is this
I go on still
It feels good
A word like magnificent, even.
The words,
No matter where I rest my
Body
Allow me to dangle
From the world
As an angel peering
Up
And without the harp
But with the sword of the muse
I stab into the bottom of
That great sphere above me –
Letting it bleed into
My mouth
My ears
My eyes
My guts…
I puke over and again…
And it all feels as good as it did
The first time.
Without it
I know what I’m missing:
Therefore,
Next poem.
Mark del Guzzo
(added 07.05.10)
editor's note: Poets are word addicts. Each onslaught of verse may be nonsense to others, but the words bring that big bump, that euphoria. Got to have them, need to let those words squeeze us into meaning. What else is there? - mh
•••••••••••
The Edge Of Reception
At the edge of reception where
I know naught.
Sphere, realm, dimension.
Not fully in nor out.
Stretched between nanoseconds
Of here and there and now and then.
Mathematical matrix of
Quirks and quarks and myths and
Theories.
I dislike physics, but the science of
Matter and energy and their
Interactions make sense of this
Draw beyond my ken.
It taunts and flaunts spectacular
Galaxies as I travel amidst this
One star ruin.
Black holes beckon and I barely
Resist their temptation.
I am so in awe.
Quick! What is the definition of
Redemption as I teeter on the
Edge of reception.
Paula Dawn Lietz
(added 07.04.10)
editor's note: "...this one star ruin." What a great line! We are all seeking a working, workable definition for Redemption; some in repentence, some in green stamps. Depends on your frequency, I think. - 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...
TCBing,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Meditations on Life (above) by Johnny Olson , one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
Every once in a great while we here at Mad Swirl take a break. Sometimes these breaks are planned, sometimes they are not. Sometimes they come when we don't know we need them but end up finding out that we really do. This last break was one of those times. But the ol' swirling tanks are filled once again and here we are with a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Tribute to the Smoke Girl
Between her white fingers
The soporific Marlboro
burns, burns
Staining her lips, eyes
soul, soul
And the puffs she inhales
Tow her beauty, age
Between her white fingers
Life turns to ash, ash
I stoop and amass her lips, eyes
soul, soul
And burn it at home
Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 07.17.10)
editor's note: Hmmmmm. Who's got the bad habit here? - mh
•••••••••••
A Painterly Opinion
Let it be known
that in the eyes
of certain gods
everything you do
in your painting
is perfect
but in ours
to which gods gave
freedom of discernment
they remark
your technique
is hesitant.
It is about
the excessive
bleeding magenta
and the dotty impression
your bristled soul
projects.
Alex Nodopaka
(added 07.16.10)
editor's note: We like honesty, especially when our readers are honestly impressed! But, if we're going to ask, be prepared... some won't like our choice of color. - mh
•••••••••••
Mothers' Night
cascading shards uneasy echoes
falling
Rape of Earth, hot spurts of words savage knives abiding Mothers, sacred and mundane twist into harridan cold stars
wailing, hurtling waves Sad, old, crust of ages sliced and screwed, carved up for profit "It's not the color of the skin, the culture of the smile" the scent of danger, the inborn stranger -- all excuses for Us (superior) and Them (inferior) "They are not like we; but lower curs." we may harm with unfettered glee Cursed to be ours, cut to our requirement. Keep them from our (property)(security) Leave them to our putrid pits cunning jabs, our pleasure.
Thus all treasure that might regale, heal, reveal true worth, of man and Earth sold for pittance of potash to dance a weary jig
Laurie Corzett
(added 07.08.10)
editor's note: Too much, we dance the weary jig... are we tired, yet? - mh
•••••••••••
NIGHT SOUNDS
Maple leaves tap rain gutters.
A tractor-trailer
pants
in a diner parking lot.
A tomcat removes
his bloody bandage.
A robin abruptly chirps and whistles
in the middle
of a carnal dream.
Eighteen seconds later
a train honks.
Crickets
form a revolutionary congress
below forsythia,
faded shingles,
and a 1920’s streetlamp
leaning against a sulfur breeze
whose kisses of fireflies
have only hours
to survive.
Miles away the chemical train
moans like a cow.
Alan Britt
(added 07.07.10)
editor's note: Damn these poets! Isn't it like them to peel back the layers of ordinary experience to reveal the most disturbing things? Walk through your garden after dark and listen . . . then run when the crickets start up. They want redistribution of your wealth. Now, think about what a cricket would consider "wealth." Then run faster! - mh
•••••••••••
Black (hole) Power
Suck it up, everything
and tell no one, most importantly
where the things we haven’t seen
have gone.
This is Black hole Power
Away, a silent sucking occurs
A celestial mouth opens
Deforming space-time
Its dark breath inhales
Mercilessly and so, into this
everything must go.
Does it hum low
While devouring; maiming matter
It drinks of space like water
Makes a mockery of stars that glow and
Strikes awe into teens on rooftops
Staring from dilated spheres, up at larger spheres
Gets us even higher
Hovering, they seem the biggest thing
Twinkle twinkle little giants!
As Black hole Power hurries forth
To swallow/eat your dream.
Ravenous without conscious will
A metaphor for never to return
Like when my heart fell
Under your power, and spun
quite unstoppably, to be sucked toward
Your junky soul
(The blackest hole)
Tell no one, most importantly.
Meg Frances
(added 07.06.10)
editor's note: We are comets, colliding in cosmic, coital climax; clearly succumbing to the clutches of this event horizon. We're addicted to the pull. Shhhhhhhh... - mh
•••••••••••
As I Wait to Hear from Her
The words are moist
The words are hard
The words are a ball of kitty-string
Consisting of
A stripper with
5 years experience – maybe only three
Of you, me
Of jail time
Of this damn wobbly chair
Supporting my pill-filled stomach
Of Nick Cave writing with a needle
Dangling from his horror-filled arm
And
I have given up on the pen
For it is ridiculous
To me
Sitting there, somewhere,
Nowhere, and jotting nonsense
That I will never use again.
But
So is this
So is this
I go on still
It feels good
A word like magnificent, even.
The words,
No matter where I rest my
Body
Allow me to dangle
From the world
As an angel peering
Up
And without the harp
But with the sword of the muse
I stab into the bottom of
That great sphere above me –
Letting it bleed into
My mouth
My ears
My eyes
My guts…
I puke over and again…
And it all feels as good as it did
The first time.
Without it
I know what I’m missing:
Therefore,
Next poem.
Mark del Guzzo
(added 07.05.10)
editor's note: Poets are word addicts. Each onslaught of verse may be nonsense to others, but the words bring that big bump, that euphoria. Got to have them, need to let those words squeeze us into meaning. What else is there? - mh
•••••••••••
The Edge Of Reception
At the edge of reception where
I know naught.
Sphere, realm, dimension.
Not fully in nor out.
Stretched between nanoseconds
Of here and there and now and then.
Mathematical matrix of
Quirks and quarks and myths and
Theories.
I dislike physics, but the science of
Matter and energy and their
Interactions make sense of this
Draw beyond my ken.
It taunts and flaunts spectacular
Galaxies as I travel amidst this
One star ruin.
Black holes beckon and I barely
Resist their temptation.
I am so in awe.
Quick! What is the definition of
Redemption as I teeter on the
Edge of reception.
Paula Dawn Lietz
(added 07.04.10)
editor's note: "...this one star ruin." What a great line! We are all seeking a working, workable definition for Redemption; some in repentence, some in green stamps. Depends on your frequency, I think. - 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...
TCBing,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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