The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.24.10
“I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center.” Kurt Vonnegut
The Fallen Comrade (above) by mad painter Joseph A. Garrison, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Writing
Writing is
finally
finding
someone
you can trust
and
telling them a secret
that you’ve just got to get off your chest
because you need
them to know
who you really are
because
you can’t keep pretending
anymore.
Writing is
screaming shackled
feelings
at the night sky.
Feelings that are destroying
you
on the inside
making you
crazy
with fear.
It’s telling
your father
to go fuck himself.
It’s exploding
with furious fists flying
on that bully
when he lays a hand on you.
It’s telling
your asshole boss
that you quit
right in the middle
of the morning rush.
Writing is
looking and finding
tiny pieces
from a monstrosity of a puzzle.
Writing is
going into the bathroom
locking the door
crying
for twenty minutes
because all those memories
that you keep trying to forget
keep showing up
at your front door
like an uninvited friend
who really isn’t your friend
but he thinks he is
and afterwards
you wipe your
nose
take a deep breath
and say –
That wasn’t so bad
That was a long time ago.
Brad Bisio
(1 poem added 07.24.10)
editor's note: Write! I mean, Right... Rite! - mh
•••••••••••
Leaving
Her eyes are red, her glasses fogged,
She stands behind the counter.
A tissue clenched in her right hand,
Her fears and worries surround her.
Years of hurt and sorrow,
Are scribbled on her face.
The lines that usually form a smile,
Turn down in disgust and disgrace.
She lowers her eyes,
A tear hits the floor,
Her own personal way of grieving.
I ask, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
And she says, “Baby, we’re leaving.”
Ashley Brianne Combs
(1 poem 07.23.10)
editor's note: We can see the tear splash, hear the catch in her voice as she answered and remember similar events, written on our brains from childhood. They come to remembrance from time to time. Thanks, Ashley for sharing! (See Ashley's new poetry page as she joins our growing conclave of Contributing Poets.) - mh
•••••••••••
BORN IN THE WATER
I was born in the water.
The wind gave birth to me.
I was weary and angry.
My backbone was bent out of shape.
The night took care of me.
The sun wanted to kill me.
I armed myself with stones.
I plunged them into the water
where the sun’s reflection
was looking back at me.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(3 poems added 07.22.10)
editor's note: We cannot hide our weapons of defense away from even a reflection of our foe. Let go anger... (Read two more good ones from Luis on his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
DOWNTOWN
Downtown, three a.m., the great grotesques are slipping
through the steam from metal grids, like myths, like bigfoot
on the stumbling run, snapped in the distance, too far
to tell if it is real or just some loser dressed up in his finest drugs.
High above, fourth floor apartment, mirror hails the crack-cloaked
dream of rising rock star, his addictions straight from his wall-poster gods,
nose cleared for takeoff by his triumphant pose, air guitar and spoon.
Back alley, manna from the syringe, junkie strait-jackets his
upper arm, presses needle deep into a hungry vein,
while wino takes his orders from a bottle in brown paper,
one gulp to quell the fire, two to start it up again,
the third to transport him back to distant fires
and a favorite splash in a deep black pool
where the fish come with three heads, two tails,
and the water’s blessed with fetal drowning.
John Grey
(2 poems added 07.21.10)
editor's note: Spectator or spectacle, we all play our part at a downtown near you. (There's another good from John, just in - check out his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Python Pythons
Beating stones a stony boy hammers his nails.
He is mysterious about doctors and hospitals.
He puts herbal drops and wraps his wounds.
He can’t care bleeding and continues his chores.
He envisages joining school.
He is unaided for education; that supports him?
He stares around and locates a python swallowing a buffalo.
The dreadful scene qualms his existence and he runs away.
His life is as life of buffalo in python’s cavity.
He doesn’t get education as the buffalo doesn’t get a rescue.
He cries for liberation to rid of deficiency, illiteracy and incongruity.
Oppression and neglect ambush him as buffalo by python.
His complexities sway him for rejoining his charge.
He assembles at far-off, where part of day is a day.
Nature is also iniquitous to him as she stands wintry.
Oh fair! Where is humanism and universalism for him?
The new site is his verve, his instruction and his cosmos!
He wrestles with flood and fuming watercourse.
He might dream for his idol endeavors, mightn’t he?
But in vain, he is in sequence of paltry and prejudice.
He resembles communication to his heavenly dwellers.
He supplies the materials to build up the courtyards.
But he is down-and-out and unplaced.
He presupposes the blue over him is his roof.
He presumes his paucity is as like the python.
Python pythons of his adversities are his outrageous veracities.
He weeps; he cries but beats the stones, the rocks.
Shocking wounds slay his lines of palms.
He doesn’t discern who a palmist is!
He ne’er identifies what a kismet is!
He witnesses python of pythons in societies.
He stumbles at myriad giant pythons in his world.
He prays to his power.
Oh, superman! Oh strength! Oh equitable jury!
Where are you?
Would you come to exterminate me?
Chiranjibi Niroula
© copyright 2010
(1 poem added 07.20.10)
editor's note: What serpent lurks in those tall grasses? What rescue can there be from constriction and suffocation? We take for granted what, for some, are not inalienable, securities. - mh
•••••••••••
Subterranean Landslide and the Blaze of the Electric Soul
This is not for the falsely kept consensus
Who lock into limb with shadow over track
Include my consciousness in the melted frisk
Flaunt the forests of my would-be mind, leaf by jaded leaf
To within a scratch of mud-scented sight
Rumble the apex, jaunt this joint
Suspend animation in sweaty-grass verb and
Loafy, milky, truthy tickle
This is not no ride, Pitch black, mano a mano, joyful dead chorus
This is not no symptom Abba Zabba, zazen, long grain rice
This is not no toast Chocolate covered, celebration, maths
I ride the float, I was birthed a symptom
My tongue is surely thinking vegan
I am chewing your bark now
Spitting seasons and verbal seeds
Wrecked from the discard of your failed see
Tip the triangle to trip and burn my blood to boot
Out to boat the moveable feast
Jive my centre with sun symmetry and sight
Hippy. Hippy. Shake.
If you can see the soul,
dosed with flesh and fringed with fray
If you can see the soul,
ripped open with life, pulled into from holy limb
If you can see my soul,
held with skin,
Burn and light with the flesh of the universe,
Flamed with original intent
My soul - the star-burst centre, to collide with the infinite
And explode (the known) into shimmering atoms of dimension
We are all but star-fed flaming limbs
We are all but bursts of universal intent
We are all but irreversible bolts of the infinite,
Flashes tipped to trip the electric soul
Breathing life, leaf by leaf
Alexandra Ran
(added 07.19.10)
editor's note: Let these words sweep through our psyches to inspire harmony, creation, general well-being and poetry-perpetuated peace. Read, write, revel in the life of words! - mh
•••••••••••
Iranian shot dead by Basij
I saw him drop,
then once more
on repeat,
the last view
being the bulge
of his eye
clear from the socket.
Next click,
a pregnant woman,
bloodied,
and uncontrollably sleeping,
carried into
an ambulance.
Click again,
the same violent
background cries,
two wounded students,
one probably lived,
the other definitely died.
I felt sick.
I don’t know
why I watch this stuff
on YouTube.
I tell myself
it's to see
if I feel,
but I
don't know
if I believe it.
Lewis Coleman
(added 07.18.10)
editor's note: That's why these violent moments are posted on YouTube, isn't it? To make us feel outrage and empathy; to goad us into action? I don't think I believe it, either. - 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...
Edgin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
The Fallen Comrade (above) by mad painter Joseph A. Garrison, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Writing
Writing is
finally
finding
someone
you can trust
and
telling them a secret
that you’ve just got to get off your chest
because you need
them to know
who you really are
because
you can’t keep pretending
anymore.
Writing is
screaming shackled
feelings
at the night sky.
Feelings that are destroying
you
on the inside
making you
crazy
with fear.
It’s telling
your father
to go fuck himself.
It’s exploding
with furious fists flying
on that bully
when he lays a hand on you.
It’s telling
your asshole boss
that you quit
right in the middle
of the morning rush.
Writing is
looking and finding
tiny pieces
from a monstrosity of a puzzle.
Writing is
going into the bathroom
locking the door
crying
for twenty minutes
because all those memories
that you keep trying to forget
keep showing up
at your front door
like an uninvited friend
who really isn’t your friend
but he thinks he is
and afterwards
you wipe your
nose
take a deep breath
and say –
That wasn’t so bad
That was a long time ago.
Brad Bisio
(1 poem added 07.24.10)
editor's note: Write! I mean, Right... Rite! - mh
•••••••••••
Leaving
Her eyes are red, her glasses fogged,
She stands behind the counter.
A tissue clenched in her right hand,
Her fears and worries surround her.
Years of hurt and sorrow,
Are scribbled on her face.
The lines that usually form a smile,
Turn down in disgust and disgrace.
She lowers her eyes,
A tear hits the floor,
Her own personal way of grieving.
I ask, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
And she says, “Baby, we’re leaving.”
Ashley Brianne Combs
(1 poem 07.23.10)
editor's note: We can see the tear splash, hear the catch in her voice as she answered and remember similar events, written on our brains from childhood. They come to remembrance from time to time. Thanks, Ashley for sharing! (See Ashley's new poetry page as she joins our growing conclave of Contributing Poets.) - mh
•••••••••••
BORN IN THE WATER
I was born in the water.
The wind gave birth to me.
I was weary and angry.
My backbone was bent out of shape.
The night took care of me.
The sun wanted to kill me.
I armed myself with stones.
I plunged them into the water
where the sun’s reflection
was looking back at me.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(3 poems added 07.22.10)
editor's note: We cannot hide our weapons of defense away from even a reflection of our foe. Let go anger... (Read two more good ones from Luis on his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
DOWNTOWN
Downtown, three a.m., the great grotesques are slipping
through the steam from metal grids, like myths, like bigfoot
on the stumbling run, snapped in the distance, too far
to tell if it is real or just some loser dressed up in his finest drugs.
High above, fourth floor apartment, mirror hails the crack-cloaked
dream of rising rock star, his addictions straight from his wall-poster gods,
nose cleared for takeoff by his triumphant pose, air guitar and spoon.
Back alley, manna from the syringe, junkie strait-jackets his
upper arm, presses needle deep into a hungry vein,
while wino takes his orders from a bottle in brown paper,
one gulp to quell the fire, two to start it up again,
the third to transport him back to distant fires
and a favorite splash in a deep black pool
where the fish come with three heads, two tails,
and the water’s blessed with fetal drowning.
John Grey
(2 poems added 07.21.10)
editor's note: Spectator or spectacle, we all play our part at a downtown near you. (There's another good from John, just in - check out his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Python Pythons
Beating stones a stony boy hammers his nails.
He is mysterious about doctors and hospitals.
He puts herbal drops and wraps his wounds.
He can’t care bleeding and continues his chores.
He envisages joining school.
He is unaided for education; that supports him?
He stares around and locates a python swallowing a buffalo.
The dreadful scene qualms his existence and he runs away.
His life is as life of buffalo in python’s cavity.
He doesn’t get education as the buffalo doesn’t get a rescue.
He cries for liberation to rid of deficiency, illiteracy and incongruity.
Oppression and neglect ambush him as buffalo by python.
His complexities sway him for rejoining his charge.
He assembles at far-off, where part of day is a day.
Nature is also iniquitous to him as she stands wintry.
Oh fair! Where is humanism and universalism for him?
The new site is his verve, his instruction and his cosmos!
He wrestles with flood and fuming watercourse.
He might dream for his idol endeavors, mightn’t he?
But in vain, he is in sequence of paltry and prejudice.
He resembles communication to his heavenly dwellers.
He supplies the materials to build up the courtyards.
But he is down-and-out and unplaced.
He presupposes the blue over him is his roof.
He presumes his paucity is as like the python.
Python pythons of his adversities are his outrageous veracities.
He weeps; he cries but beats the stones, the rocks.
Shocking wounds slay his lines of palms.
He doesn’t discern who a palmist is!
He ne’er identifies what a kismet is!
He witnesses python of pythons in societies.
He stumbles at myriad giant pythons in his world.
He prays to his power.
Oh, superman! Oh strength! Oh equitable jury!
Where are you?
Would you come to exterminate me?
Chiranjibi Niroula
© copyright 2010
(1 poem added 07.20.10)
editor's note: What serpent lurks in those tall grasses? What rescue can there be from constriction and suffocation? We take for granted what, for some, are not inalienable, securities. - mh
•••••••••••
Subterranean Landslide and the Blaze of the Electric Soul
This is not for the falsely kept consensus
Who lock into limb with shadow over track
Include my consciousness in the melted frisk
Flaunt the forests of my would-be mind, leaf by jaded leaf
To within a scratch of mud-scented sight
Rumble the apex, jaunt this joint
Suspend animation in sweaty-grass verb and
Loafy, milky, truthy tickle
This is not no ride, Pitch black, mano a mano, joyful dead chorus
This is not no symptom Abba Zabba, zazen, long grain rice
This is not no toast Chocolate covered, celebration, maths
I ride the float, I was birthed a symptom
My tongue is surely thinking vegan
I am chewing your bark now
Spitting seasons and verbal seeds
Wrecked from the discard of your failed see
Tip the triangle to trip and burn my blood to boot
Out to boat the moveable feast
Jive my centre with sun symmetry and sight
Hippy. Hippy. Shake.
If you can see the soul,
dosed with flesh and fringed with fray
If you can see the soul,
ripped open with life, pulled into from holy limb
If you can see my soul,
held with skin,
Burn and light with the flesh of the universe,
Flamed with original intent
My soul - the star-burst centre, to collide with the infinite
And explode (the known) into shimmering atoms of dimension
We are all but star-fed flaming limbs
We are all but bursts of universal intent
We are all but irreversible bolts of the infinite,
Flashes tipped to trip the electric soul
Breathing life, leaf by leaf
Alexandra Ran
(added 07.19.10)
editor's note: Let these words sweep through our psyches to inspire harmony, creation, general well-being and poetry-perpetuated peace. Read, write, revel in the life of words! - mh
•••••••••••
Iranian shot dead by Basij
I saw him drop,
then once more
on repeat,
the last view
being the bulge
of his eye
clear from the socket.
Next click,
a pregnant woman,
bloodied,
and uncontrollably sleeping,
carried into
an ambulance.
Click again,
the same violent
background cries,
two wounded students,
one probably lived,
the other definitely died.
I felt sick.
I don’t know
why I watch this stuff
on YouTube.
I tell myself
it's to see
if I feel,
but I
don't know
if I believe it.
Lewis Coleman
(added 07.18.10)
editor's note: That's why these violent moments are posted on YouTube, isn't it? To make us feel outrage and empathy; to goad us into action? I don't think I believe it, either. - 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...
Edgin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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