The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 08.14.10
“An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.” Charles Bukowski
untitled (above) by mad poet and photographer Paula Lietz, 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...
•••••••••••
Comes Great Responsibility
A girl just walked into the classroom
set her book bag on a desk
shuffled through it for a moment
uttered a mild curse
then picked up her things
and left
rather more quickly
than she had entered
I suspect that she forgot something
Or that she is a reluctant super-hero
who keeps her "hero needed" notification beacon
in her book bag
saw that she had some heroic function to perform
and left in a mild huff
because she had hoped to get today off
from hero duties
to study for an exam
Both theories hold with the evidence
Richard F. Yates
(3 poems added 08.14.10)
editor's note: I'm goin' for super-hero. Pay attention, folks; they're everywhere! - mh
•••••••••••
Untitled
So complex the error
that even truth appears to unfold
from this errors
rotten knotted hold
and a closer look
merits no reward
for this error is
a two edged sword
that cleaves the cord
that draws the curtain
from gilded lidded
half opened eyes
that swear for certain
not surmise
the play beheld
is no illusion
but a true paradise
without exclusion
of all the wants
that thoughts desire
but choose those wants
that seem the best
to stand up to the test
of fire
and though all these prizes
be there bereft
you will find
the truth
is what is left.
Jesse Doughty
(added 08.13.10)
editor's note: Separate the chaff from the wheat, end up standing on your feet - real neat! What is true matters not if you agree, truth is troth unto itself - without your help. - mh
•••••••••••
To Bed a Witch
I’ve walked all day from Galway Bay, along the lower road,
With neither a horse nor two pennies to cross, determinedly I strode
In boots of Irish leather as soft as the skin of the rich,
Over this haunted heather, to find and bed a witch.
With no one to recommend me, nor tell me I’m better off dead,
I’ve come all this way in the chill of the day to sleep in a witch’s bed!
For I’ve heard men tell of a lass in the dell who can turn a man’s soul to stone,
And I’m headed straight there, to take her, I swear! And to hear that witch’s moan!
Now, I haven’t lost my soul (so far!) to any flash of skirt,
Tho’ I’ve had ‘em all, both big and small, on beds of satin, on beds of dirt,
And it seems to me well worth it, to forfeit a soul or two,
To a witch who is able to take that soul at any time from you!
And if, in the morning, I rise to find that my soul has indeed been mislaid,
I’ll be glad that it’s gone – that the deed has been done – even if that’s the price I’ve paid,
For what is the cost of abandon? How much for one magical fling?
Stand out of my way and I’ll happily pay to see what the night will bring!
And when, in another day or so, they notice I’m not at my table,
Just tell ‘em you’re sure I found Heaven and more, and did just as well as was able,
But don’t let ‘em mourn, for as sure as we’re born, we are often better off dead,
But if that’s true to say, then there’s no better way than to die in a witch’s bed!
C. Maggie Coffey
(added 08.12.10)
editor's note: If you're gonna go down in flames, why not make them the most delicious flames you can? Come on, Boys! Fire up some torches, we're goin' witch huntin'! - mh
•••••••••••
queen of the bar
she’s the queen of the bar again
because he’s home sleeping one off
because he’s not there to tell her how
much she stinks
how she should get off of her ass
and get a job
she’s the queen of the bar and she
can drink all of the beer that she wants
all of the scotch that they won’t usually serve her
when he’s around and keeping watch
she’s happy because some of the bar flunkies
are talking to her again
they’re his friends
it was kind of hard to before
because she’d stabbed him twice in the hand
in a drunken rage
because she’d been coming in on nights
that he worked
to start shit, to empty the bar with her wailing
and screaming
her begging for a shot
but she’s the queen of the bar today
playing old madonna songs
she orders out for a pizza
and when she’s done with it
she gets off of her stool to pass it around
the rest to her subjects
we take it because we are hungry
but none of us are buying the benevolent act
we’ve been through it too many times before
she’s the queen of the bar
and she’ll turn on a dime
she tells the bartender that she wants to
buy everyone a round
then she stops and says, no wait,
i’ll buy him and him and him and her a round
but that’s it
smirking at the ones who aren’t in her good graces tonight
she’s the queen of the bar
queen of warped wood and the scent of stale booze
queen of a jukebox loaded with her favorite songs
queen of another day slipping away in a loveless haze
the queen of the bar
god save the queen.
John Grochalski
(2 poems added 08.11.10)
editor's note: The queen is dead, long live the queen! Let's knock back a shot past our skeleton smiles and remember the denizens of the bars nearest you. - mh
•••••••••••
Synopsis of the Lecture on Homer
This is a lecture about Homer,
"Iliad" and "Odyssey" guy,
So, to the following questions
Today we need to reply:
Who was Homer?
Was he blind?
Is Homer one man or a number of people?
Is Homer a name or maybe it's a profession?
Did he even exist?
And really, why do we care?
I change my answers every year
According to the latest finds.
At the moment, as far as we care,
The following picture transpires:
Who was Homer?
Nobody knows.
Was he blind?
Perhaps.
Is Homer one man or a number of people?
There is no consensus.
Is Homer a name or may be it's a profession?
Could be any of those.
Did he even exist?
Most likely.
And really, why do we care?
It's all about eternal topics,
This Iliad and Odyssey stuff.
Be sure to read these immortal epics.
I think I told you enough
Irena Pasvinter
(1 poem added 08.10.10)
editor's note: All poets, everywhere, determine now how you want to be remembered; as a name or a profession?!? (See more from Irena on her new poetry page, since she has joined our growing list of Contributing Poets.) - mh
•••••••••••
Creation
Selfish, doubts, smiles and
Uncanny ability to laugh at crowds
An artist dies to create an art
in between clouds.
I don’t understand and
in not understanding
I may even understand.
They never know
Simplicity
Is no longer
The beauty
As beauty
Lies in struggling
and life
is madness
as if there is dancing
clouds of smoke
in between your
fingers
and life
smiles at me.
when I see
emptiness
despair,
pointing
large fingers
at the things
which
I create.
Santosh Kalwar © 2010
(added 08.09.10)
editor's note: We create to satisfy our deep compulsion to do so. Let God and angels point fingers. We will not stop creating. - mh
•••••••••••
Bystander
She sips the liquor in her mind
to ease the fire in her nest
and all the words she hears remind her not to rest,
inside her womb there is a fire
that lacks everything but denial
and she tips the glass off until it is full
of… empty.
The taste of contempt spoils under her tongue
like a rag or a straight jacket,
urging her to be clean.
The demons of us
laugh at her anguish
knowing that now, there is less to go around.
The abyss of her stomach rocks in pools of acid
aching into a purge of rocks.
The trials inside her cerebrum are futile
as the jury is biased by the color of her conscience
and the judge lacks expertise in this particular suit.
Familiar with the phrase
“Off with their heads”
but lacking the wisdom to challenge the
last king of America
or to pardon the taste of regret.
The line where immigrants are checked for lice and foreign fruits
but swallow balls of poison to afford a tricycle for their
daughter’s ninth birthday
and everybody is bribed into destitution, or worse . . .
passivity.
Chloe Viner
(1 poem added 08.08.10)
editor's note: What a portrait! A mind-rendition of someone's anquish, painted in painful pastels. Or. maybe it's a mirror... (Chloe Viner has just become a Contributing Poet to Mad Swirl. Check out more of her previously featured poems on her page.) - 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...
Hardly Simple,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
untitled (above) by mad poet and photographer Paula Lietz, 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...
•••••••••••
Comes Great Responsibility
A girl just walked into the classroom
set her book bag on a desk
shuffled through it for a moment
uttered a mild curse
then picked up her things
and left
rather more quickly
than she had entered
I suspect that she forgot something
Or that she is a reluctant super-hero
who keeps her "hero needed" notification beacon
in her book bag
saw that she had some heroic function to perform
and left in a mild huff
because she had hoped to get today off
from hero duties
to study for an exam
Both theories hold with the evidence
Richard F. Yates
(3 poems added 08.14.10)
editor's note: I'm goin' for super-hero. Pay attention, folks; they're everywhere! - mh
•••••••••••
Untitled
So complex the error
that even truth appears to unfold
from this errors
rotten knotted hold
and a closer look
merits no reward
for this error is
a two edged sword
that cleaves the cord
that draws the curtain
from gilded lidded
half opened eyes
that swear for certain
not surmise
the play beheld
is no illusion
but a true paradise
without exclusion
of all the wants
that thoughts desire
but choose those wants
that seem the best
to stand up to the test
of fire
and though all these prizes
be there bereft
you will find
the truth
is what is left.
Jesse Doughty
(added 08.13.10)
editor's note: Separate the chaff from the wheat, end up standing on your feet - real neat! What is true matters not if you agree, truth is troth unto itself - without your help. - mh
•••••••••••
To Bed a Witch
I’ve walked all day from Galway Bay, along the lower road,
With neither a horse nor two pennies to cross, determinedly I strode
In boots of Irish leather as soft as the skin of the rich,
Over this haunted heather, to find and bed a witch.
With no one to recommend me, nor tell me I’m better off dead,
I’ve come all this way in the chill of the day to sleep in a witch’s bed!
For I’ve heard men tell of a lass in the dell who can turn a man’s soul to stone,
And I’m headed straight there, to take her, I swear! And to hear that witch’s moan!
Now, I haven’t lost my soul (so far!) to any flash of skirt,
Tho’ I’ve had ‘em all, both big and small, on beds of satin, on beds of dirt,
And it seems to me well worth it, to forfeit a soul or two,
To a witch who is able to take that soul at any time from you!
And if, in the morning, I rise to find that my soul has indeed been mislaid,
I’ll be glad that it’s gone – that the deed has been done – even if that’s the price I’ve paid,
For what is the cost of abandon? How much for one magical fling?
Stand out of my way and I’ll happily pay to see what the night will bring!
And when, in another day or so, they notice I’m not at my table,
Just tell ‘em you’re sure I found Heaven and more, and did just as well as was able,
But don’t let ‘em mourn, for as sure as we’re born, we are often better off dead,
But if that’s true to say, then there’s no better way than to die in a witch’s bed!
C. Maggie Coffey
(added 08.12.10)
editor's note: If you're gonna go down in flames, why not make them the most delicious flames you can? Come on, Boys! Fire up some torches, we're goin' witch huntin'! - mh
•••••••••••
queen of the bar
she’s the queen of the bar again
because he’s home sleeping one off
because he’s not there to tell her how
much she stinks
how she should get off of her ass
and get a job
she’s the queen of the bar and she
can drink all of the beer that she wants
all of the scotch that they won’t usually serve her
when he’s around and keeping watch
she’s happy because some of the bar flunkies
are talking to her again
they’re his friends
it was kind of hard to before
because she’d stabbed him twice in the hand
in a drunken rage
because she’d been coming in on nights
that he worked
to start shit, to empty the bar with her wailing
and screaming
her begging for a shot
but she’s the queen of the bar today
playing old madonna songs
she orders out for a pizza
and when she’s done with it
she gets off of her stool to pass it around
the rest to her subjects
we take it because we are hungry
but none of us are buying the benevolent act
we’ve been through it too many times before
she’s the queen of the bar
and she’ll turn on a dime
she tells the bartender that she wants to
buy everyone a round
then she stops and says, no wait,
i’ll buy him and him and him and her a round
but that’s it
smirking at the ones who aren’t in her good graces tonight
she’s the queen of the bar
queen of warped wood and the scent of stale booze
queen of a jukebox loaded with her favorite songs
queen of another day slipping away in a loveless haze
the queen of the bar
god save the queen.
John Grochalski
(2 poems added 08.11.10)
editor's note: The queen is dead, long live the queen! Let's knock back a shot past our skeleton smiles and remember the denizens of the bars nearest you. - mh
•••••••••••
Synopsis of the Lecture on Homer
This is a lecture about Homer,
"Iliad" and "Odyssey" guy,
So, to the following questions
Today we need to reply:
Who was Homer?
Was he blind?
Is Homer one man or a number of people?
Is Homer a name or maybe it's a profession?
Did he even exist?
And really, why do we care?
I change my answers every year
According to the latest finds.
At the moment, as far as we care,
The following picture transpires:
Who was Homer?
Nobody knows.
Was he blind?
Perhaps.
Is Homer one man or a number of people?
There is no consensus.
Is Homer a name or may be it's a profession?
Could be any of those.
Did he even exist?
Most likely.
And really, why do we care?
It's all about eternal topics,
This Iliad and Odyssey stuff.
Be sure to read these immortal epics.
I think I told you enough
Irena Pasvinter
(1 poem added 08.10.10)
editor's note: All poets, everywhere, determine now how you want to be remembered; as a name or a profession?!? (See more from Irena on her new poetry page, since she has joined our growing list of Contributing Poets.) - mh
•••••••••••
Creation
Selfish, doubts, smiles and
Uncanny ability to laugh at crowds
An artist dies to create an art
in between clouds.
I don’t understand and
in not understanding
I may even understand.
They never know
Simplicity
Is no longer
The beauty
As beauty
Lies in struggling
and life
is madness
as if there is dancing
clouds of smoke
in between your
fingers
and life
smiles at me.
when I see
emptiness
despair,
pointing
large fingers
at the things
which
I create.
Santosh Kalwar © 2010
(added 08.09.10)
editor's note: We create to satisfy our deep compulsion to do so. Let God and angels point fingers. We will not stop creating. - mh
•••••••••••
Bystander
She sips the liquor in her mind
to ease the fire in her nest
and all the words she hears remind her not to rest,
inside her womb there is a fire
that lacks everything but denial
and she tips the glass off until it is full
of… empty.
The taste of contempt spoils under her tongue
like a rag or a straight jacket,
urging her to be clean.
The demons of us
laugh at her anguish
knowing that now, there is less to go around.
The abyss of her stomach rocks in pools of acid
aching into a purge of rocks.
The trials inside her cerebrum are futile
as the jury is biased by the color of her conscience
and the judge lacks expertise in this particular suit.
Familiar with the phrase
“Off with their heads”
but lacking the wisdom to challenge the
last king of America
or to pardon the taste of regret.
The line where immigrants are checked for lice and foreign fruits
but swallow balls of poison to afford a tricycle for their
daughter’s ninth birthday
and everybody is bribed into destitution, or worse . . .
passivity.
Chloe Viner
(1 poem added 08.08.10)
editor's note: What a portrait! A mind-rendition of someone's anquish, painted in painful pastels. Or. maybe it's a mirror... (Chloe Viner has just become a Contributing Poet to Mad Swirl. Check out more of her previously featured poems on her page.) - 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...
Hardly Simple,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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