The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 08.21.10
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” Kahlil Gibran
The Observer (above) by mad painter Christian Millet, 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...
•••••••••••
What TV Taught Me
Hialeah
I remember this name
From black and white TV
Bookies making book
On my national broadcast system
Hialeah
Where horses raced
And rich Jewish retirees
Escaped for an afternoon
Away from their cartoon harpy
Jewish brides
Hialeah
Gimme twenty dolla’s on
Born to Run to place in the fifth
“My God, he’s hemorrhaging!”
I didn’t know what that was
But I could tell it had to be bad
Since she was crying pretty hard
I was home alone with strep throat again
And 2 pm is the worst time
For a ten year old
With the TV to himself
And nothing but soaps to watch
“Things are different now.”
Was Leslie Nielsen’s line
To Warren Stevens
By which he explained the affect
A young and voluptuous Anne Francis
Had upon him
She had to be nineteen
And my God she was hot
But I was a child
And the references to The Tempest
Were lost on me
I hadn’t read The Tempest
We had just discovered my near-sightedness
Because I couldn’t get close enough to Huckleberry Hound
Color TV wouldn’t be around
For another 10 years
TV gave me my first really bad news
While televising the first assassination
Of an American president in the 20th century
The bad news for me was
No cartoons for three days
I was nine
Later came more bad news that I could understand
The “Veet Nam” war
Then Bobby and Martin
Bad shit
Watts, Chicago ‘69
When I was just trying to be cool
TV taught me Cool
I watched for Cool
The Stones were cool
But they didn’t get on TV much
The Beatles were cool
Ed’s people thought so
On national TV, they got him to say so
Jimmi got on Johnny
I think he played Purple Haze
My Dad was outraged
And I didn’t know enough to shut up
It wasn’t all distortion through amplification
There was melody and diction
It was clear
But, “You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’”
Were not words a 12 year old was going to say out loud
To a Father who was ten beers and four shots
On his way to another night of belligerent oblivion
All those shows
Object lessons
Rob and Laura holding hands
Across the space between their twin beds
But not for too long
Ward and June
Talking through the complexities
Of rearing Wally and the Beaver
In white America
“Tell the truth”
“Show compassion for the weak
And downtrodden”
“The ends never justify the...”
Meanness before harm never
Or strike before stricken
But, slide before slipping
Glide upon the stumble
Turn humiliation into pride
Glide
I learned to examine the evidence
Analyze the circumstances
Expose the man behind the curtain
Uncover the secret wheels
Indict the corporate criminals
Convict the simpering smiling
Slick grifting shyster
Robber embezzler of fortunes
The old man’s
Young widow’s
Yours and mine
Brain matter turned to jelly
Independent actions warped to mindless obedience
Buy more
Borrow ever
Debt is gain
For someone else
Someone smarter, richer
Rich enough
To pen the writer
Hire the director
Threaten the producers
Seduce the investors
To bring in the money, money
Document the crime
To the morbid fascination
And abject impoverishment
Of us all who pay, no matter what
The cable bill
Or the satellite bill
We have the choice
And think this makes us free
MH Clay
(3 poems added 08.21.10)
editor's note: Thanks to MH's time-lined televised memories, he has got us remembering the milestones of our own lives by what we were watching when ___ happened. Go to MH's page to get you two more poems from MadSwirl's very own. - jo
•••••••••••
open your mouth wide
open your mouth wide
and let your tounge roll out the words
as lemon sours hitting linoleum
or silverware chiming on the kitchen floor
spread open box of matchsticks on the counter
open it wider still
cymbal crashes
dumptruck kaboom
squealing tires and crunching metal
open wide open wide wide open
let me see your molars glistening
and the peek of your softness
coming out in scarlet red notes of fury
shake your dreads
stand the hairs on my arms at attention
nipples erect
nether regions listening
Open your mouth
like broken hydrants on summer days
steaming on pavements like relief
slot machine payloads
flashing lights and grasping hands
shirts cupped under to catch the waves
rolling rolling on the inevitable
gold truth
split open yr lips
like broken orange peels
effervescing on my cheeks
lemon squirts in my eyes
bottle corks flying
hot foam spitting down
dry throats
OPEN YOUR MOUTH
without pretention
without labels
no history
no future
OPEN YOURMOUTH
and I they all will follow
like black birds breaking their structured flight
boldly dipping , dotting the sky in masterful truth.
Opalina Salas
(3 poems added 08.20.10)
editor's note: Four and twenty, baked in a pie. Blackbirds singing, singing, singing - my, my. Yeah, yeah, open - open wide!! Thanks to Opalina (fish sister extraordinaire) See two more brain crackers from Opalina on her page. - mh
•••••••••••
’s Only Crazy If You’re Caught
Inspired by “The Swing” by Laurie Lipton
Alone allows.
I have permission to find out the plight of my Windex bottle,
cramped into a cabinet, cross-legged and scrunched
into a smaller package than I was ever intended to be.
And I can peek out if I want, spit my tongue at the cat
or let slivers of light slice my face. I can dangle my feet,
pricking with gravitational pull: forward and backward,
high upon a rafter in my bedroom—at least where I used to keep
my bed, now pushed out into the hall
to make room for my ropes and pillows and flight.
A doorbell brings shoes with laces that tangle
and slap me around my ankles; knitting needles
that would surely find an eye socket, and a tea set
with a cracked spout and cold leaves stuck to the bottom
of cups and saucers, round as my words
or the doilies and handkerchief corners—worn to shreds
by the wringing of arthritis and go away.
Please, go away.
Alone allows.
Kim Keith
(added 08.19.10)
editor's note: Catch me if you can. Swing high! (Thanks, Kimberly.) - mh
•••••••••••
A Rose
I pull a fetid rose
from the Garden
of life,
I know little
it's this death I'm living
that is too familiar
torn lotto tickets taste of it
same as a cold styrofoam shell from
Dot's Diner where my story fell flat and
the blue hairs waxed on about the way it was
despite their commitments
so I poured another crack whore a drink and told Bill
his cab smelled like roses
as he pushed another filter in his burnt lips
and pointed to the rose hanging from
his one way mirror
Rob Dyer
(added 08.18.10)
editor's note: What's that crawling up the stem? Oh, yeah; reality - that's how this poet sees it. My doesn't he see it well! - mh
•••••••••••
Rowed in a Green Boat
Knob hills shelter the lake
like a rib cage.
We rowed to the middle in a green boat
and played baptism
in the clear water,
I felt your sun warmth wrap around me,
unashamed of bodies.
My weight sank in the earth at the shore
as I dragged the boat in
when we returned
to the place where we must all return.
In the ground that raised us
and devours,
I will live in melting light.
John Swain
(2 poems added 08.17.10)
editor's note: Yes, shed the coil, but not in death; "live in melting light." The earth will be your new flesh. Rest easy! Thanks, John Swain! (See another one from John on his page) - mh
•••••••••••
306 Lorraine
Sorry
Mr. Bailey
but your bra strap
got in the way
of my Reformation
eyes
and now I can’t go
five minutes
without mother’s mascara
and raindrops upon the slanting
summer shingles
the paid professional
installed
just last week
as the boys on their bikes
did pop-o-wheelies with skinned knee bravado,
the girls in the street
ran absent-minded
through a wilted patch of forget-me-nots,
and I confessed to a rowboat
in sink the Bismarck
dry dock
for the first time
that I used to bake beans
in my maternal grandmother’s
torn pantyhose
and gaudy brass
rings
and haven’t had a dream
since the good reverend
in a Memphis motel
packed his ideals away
with his toothbrush
in an overnight bag
made of lead
and checked out
unexpectedly.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 08.16.10)
editor's note: Just another day in Ryan Quinn's neighborhood. What's it like in yours? (see another crazy one from RQ on his page) - mh
•••••••••••
Transitions
See the faces run,
Cry down the candle post—
Take your place
Among the masses
Life’s tangibles,
Intangibles,
Facsimile,
Refuse.
Call in the candle maker
Another generation passes.
Dixon Hearne
(addded 08.15.10)
editor's note: In the and, we all amount to hardened puddles. The candlemaker keeps his costs down by recycling the wax. - 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...
Searingly Yours,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
The Observer (above) by mad painter Christian Millet, 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...
•••••••••••
What TV Taught Me
Hialeah
I remember this name
From black and white TV
Bookies making book
On my national broadcast system
Hialeah
Where horses raced
And rich Jewish retirees
Escaped for an afternoon
Away from their cartoon harpy
Jewish brides
Hialeah
Gimme twenty dolla’s on
Born to Run to place in the fifth
“My God, he’s hemorrhaging!”
I didn’t know what that was
But I could tell it had to be bad
Since she was crying pretty hard
I was home alone with strep throat again
And 2 pm is the worst time
For a ten year old
With the TV to himself
And nothing but soaps to watch
“Things are different now.”
Was Leslie Nielsen’s line
To Warren Stevens
By which he explained the affect
A young and voluptuous Anne Francis
Had upon him
She had to be nineteen
And my God she was hot
But I was a child
And the references to The Tempest
Were lost on me
I hadn’t read The Tempest
We had just discovered my near-sightedness
Because I couldn’t get close enough to Huckleberry Hound
Color TV wouldn’t be around
For another 10 years
TV gave me my first really bad news
While televising the first assassination
Of an American president in the 20th century
The bad news for me was
No cartoons for three days
I was nine
Later came more bad news that I could understand
The “Veet Nam” war
Then Bobby and Martin
Bad shit
Watts, Chicago ‘69
When I was just trying to be cool
TV taught me Cool
I watched for Cool
The Stones were cool
But they didn’t get on TV much
The Beatles were cool
Ed’s people thought so
On national TV, they got him to say so
Jimmi got on Johnny
I think he played Purple Haze
My Dad was outraged
And I didn’t know enough to shut up
It wasn’t all distortion through amplification
There was melody and diction
It was clear
But, “You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’”
Were not words a 12 year old was going to say out loud
To a Father who was ten beers and four shots
On his way to another night of belligerent oblivion
All those shows
Object lessons
Rob and Laura holding hands
Across the space between their twin beds
But not for too long
Ward and June
Talking through the complexities
Of rearing Wally and the Beaver
In white America
“Tell the truth”
“Show compassion for the weak
And downtrodden”
“The ends never justify the...”
Meanness before harm never
Or strike before stricken
But, slide before slipping
Glide upon the stumble
Turn humiliation into pride
Glide
I learned to examine the evidence
Analyze the circumstances
Expose the man behind the curtain
Uncover the secret wheels
Indict the corporate criminals
Convict the simpering smiling
Slick grifting shyster
Robber embezzler of fortunes
The old man’s
Young widow’s
Yours and mine
Brain matter turned to jelly
Independent actions warped to mindless obedience
Buy more
Borrow ever
Debt is gain
For someone else
Someone smarter, richer
Rich enough
To pen the writer
Hire the director
Threaten the producers
Seduce the investors
To bring in the money, money
Document the crime
To the morbid fascination
And abject impoverishment
Of us all who pay, no matter what
The cable bill
Or the satellite bill
We have the choice
And think this makes us free
MH Clay
(3 poems added 08.21.10)
editor's note: Thanks to MH's time-lined televised memories, he has got us remembering the milestones of our own lives by what we were watching when ___ happened. Go to MH's page to get you two more poems from MadSwirl's very own. - jo
•••••••••••
open your mouth wide
open your mouth wide
and let your tounge roll out the words
as lemon sours hitting linoleum
or silverware chiming on the kitchen floor
spread open box of matchsticks on the counter
open it wider still
cymbal crashes
dumptruck kaboom
squealing tires and crunching metal
open wide open wide wide open
let me see your molars glistening
and the peek of your softness
coming out in scarlet red notes of fury
shake your dreads
stand the hairs on my arms at attention
nipples erect
nether regions listening
Open your mouth
like broken hydrants on summer days
steaming on pavements like relief
slot machine payloads
flashing lights and grasping hands
shirts cupped under to catch the waves
rolling rolling on the inevitable
gold truth
split open yr lips
like broken orange peels
effervescing on my cheeks
lemon squirts in my eyes
bottle corks flying
hot foam spitting down
dry throats
OPEN YOUR MOUTH
without pretention
without labels
no history
no future
OPEN YOURMOUTH
and I they all will follow
like black birds breaking their structured flight
boldly dipping , dotting the sky in masterful truth.
Opalina Salas
(3 poems added 08.20.10)
editor's note: Four and twenty, baked in a pie. Blackbirds singing, singing, singing - my, my. Yeah, yeah, open - open wide!! Thanks to Opalina (fish sister extraordinaire) See two more brain crackers from Opalina on her page. - mh
•••••••••••
’s Only Crazy If You’re Caught
Inspired by “The Swing” by Laurie Lipton
Alone allows.
I have permission to find out the plight of my Windex bottle,
cramped into a cabinet, cross-legged and scrunched
into a smaller package than I was ever intended to be.
And I can peek out if I want, spit my tongue at the cat
or let slivers of light slice my face. I can dangle my feet,
pricking with gravitational pull: forward and backward,
high upon a rafter in my bedroom—at least where I used to keep
my bed, now pushed out into the hall
to make room for my ropes and pillows and flight.
A doorbell brings shoes with laces that tangle
and slap me around my ankles; knitting needles
that would surely find an eye socket, and a tea set
with a cracked spout and cold leaves stuck to the bottom
of cups and saucers, round as my words
or the doilies and handkerchief corners—worn to shreds
by the wringing of arthritis and go away.
Please, go away.
Alone allows.
Kim Keith
(added 08.19.10)
editor's note: Catch me if you can. Swing high! (Thanks, Kimberly.) - mh
•••••••••••
A Rose
I pull a fetid rose
from the Garden
of life,
I know little
it's this death I'm living
that is too familiar
torn lotto tickets taste of it
same as a cold styrofoam shell from
Dot's Diner where my story fell flat and
the blue hairs waxed on about the way it was
despite their commitments
so I poured another crack whore a drink and told Bill
his cab smelled like roses
as he pushed another filter in his burnt lips
and pointed to the rose hanging from
his one way mirror
Rob Dyer
(added 08.18.10)
editor's note: What's that crawling up the stem? Oh, yeah; reality - that's how this poet sees it. My doesn't he see it well! - mh
•••••••••••
Rowed in a Green Boat
Knob hills shelter the lake
like a rib cage.
We rowed to the middle in a green boat
and played baptism
in the clear water,
I felt your sun warmth wrap around me,
unashamed of bodies.
My weight sank in the earth at the shore
as I dragged the boat in
when we returned
to the place where we must all return.
In the ground that raised us
and devours,
I will live in melting light.
John Swain
(2 poems added 08.17.10)
editor's note: Yes, shed the coil, but not in death; "live in melting light." The earth will be your new flesh. Rest easy! Thanks, John Swain! (See another one from John on his page) - mh
•••••••••••
306 Lorraine
Sorry
Mr. Bailey
but your bra strap
got in the way
of my Reformation
eyes
and now I can’t go
five minutes
without mother’s mascara
and raindrops upon the slanting
summer shingles
the paid professional
installed
just last week
as the boys on their bikes
did pop-o-wheelies with skinned knee bravado,
the girls in the street
ran absent-minded
through a wilted patch of forget-me-nots,
and I confessed to a rowboat
in sink the Bismarck
dry dock
for the first time
that I used to bake beans
in my maternal grandmother’s
torn pantyhose
and gaudy brass
rings
and haven’t had a dream
since the good reverend
in a Memphis motel
packed his ideals away
with his toothbrush
in an overnight bag
made of lead
and checked out
unexpectedly.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 08.16.10)
editor's note: Just another day in Ryan Quinn's neighborhood. What's it like in yours? (see another crazy one from RQ on his page) - mh
•••••••••••
Transitions
See the faces run,
Cry down the candle post—
Take your place
Among the masses
Life’s tangibles,
Intangibles,
Facsimile,
Refuse.
Call in the candle maker
Another generation passes.
Dixon Hearne
(addded 08.15.10)
editor's note: In the and, we all amount to hardened puddles. The candlemaker keeps his costs down by recycling the wax. - 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...
Searingly Yours,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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