The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 09.11.10
“Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head.
Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage.” Paul Engle
Underwater Fire #2 (above) by painter Jim Fuess, 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...
•••••••••••
Cold dogs in the back yard
There it was – in my pocket!
Oh, what a dangerous traveler I was – with a ticket!
Leaving my country for chasing a dream…
In my other pocket - what was left of my happiness
and luck. I was running away from the black dogs
of sorrow. I thought they can’t swim across the ocean.
I was wrong, of course.
And here I am, now. Sitting under the naked light bulb,
sipping the table wine, thinking “Is there a God?”
No answer at all!
I hear the barking of my neighbor’s dog. It is dark outside.
In some distant mountain I can feel the snow, I can hear
the wolves run in silence. And now all is so quiet!
The faucet in the kitchen is dripping, the pipes gurgle
and in my lap is this small, old poetry book. I search
for God in there. Nothing! Not even some divinity
of the Word. I continue my search. Outside gets darker than
black. The dog howls. I look up at the light and the brightness
burns my eyes, my wings start to flap. And all of a sudden
I hear a voice:
“Be careful! The bright watchers are still there!
Peycho Kanev
(2 poems added 09.11.10)
editor's note: Tickets. pockets, destinations, barking dogs. The language is the same. A hole is a hole, no matter where we dig it. And bright watchers are everywhere (More from Peycho on his page, check it out). - mh
•••••••••••
Giggling Mantras
I carry no water for
Thunder moon
The evening star
dances prophecies
into the phantasm
of the epic all
A celestial princess
Diamond eyes
Moon belly
Hair of the sun
Streaking light pillar rays
Tip-toeing secrets
Across your dream sky
Hiding them with whispers
Giggling mantras before
Daybreak Revolutions
Set my heart on fire
Sitting and talking
Blue twinkling
Distance is relative
Compare the heaven's
heart beats to mine
Meteorites wish their lovers
were that close.
Desmene M. Statum
(2 poems added 09.10.10)
editor's note: Shhhhhh. Listen... the cosmos are whispering in jealous angst, they covet Desmene's love - a hard love to come by. Only special incendiaries might attempt it. Many have failed, only to fizzle in the atmosphere - what a spectacle! (More from Dez on her poetry page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
I Need a BIG Whiskey
Said the man on the street
who shouted high to the rooftops
and low to the little children in the streets
between saxophone toot toot ta toots
that rang true to even seasoned musicians
on the Brooklyn streets.
"I'll give you what you need
if you can answer me one question:
How the hell you learn to play so well
like the devil blowin' when he takes a soul to hell?"
After tying a yellow looking shoelace
frayed more than those on my cleats from high school days
he cocked his head up.
"Funny you ask me that question
for the other day
some guy with a pitchfork
and a pointy tail sauntered by
and begged to know my secret.
Know what I told him?" he replied
as he crooked his finger my way.
I bent over to hear his secret.
And he said
- no shouted -
in my good ear
"I need a BIG whiskey."
After the ringing subsided
in my now other bad auditory canal
I slipped him a twenty.
Sax man shoved it
in his pocket, patted my shoulder
and told me his secret.
Today, you can find me
on a different street
playin' my horn
and asking for handouts
as I always seem to thirst
for more than I've got.
Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 09.09.10)
editor's note: That's a powerful thirst. We are always looking for that big drink; never satisfied, but writin', singin' and blowin' like we hope to get that BIG whiskey someday. Even if only at the Heavenly Bar . . . Thanks, Joseph! (Another good from Joseph on his poetry page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
Martyrdom
How quickly does the flower wilt and die,
And even quicker how her colors fade.
Her petals that were once raised to the sky
Have fallen off, head bowed as if to pray.
Plucked from her home, her roots are all but dry
Now she drinks her water from a jar
For now, of course, the shallows will suffice,
But stolen water only goes so far.
The poor dead flow’r, no longer on display
Is hidden, pressed upon a holy page.
In darkness and in silence now she prays
To be set free from this forgotten place.
What would she do though, if she were to go?
The darkness has become her only home.
Samantha Steves
(added 09.08.10)
editor's note: So many things we press between dark pages - flowers, fleeting fumbles, flashes of past perfections; we thought so at the time. - mh
•••••••••••
vulva like transversible wormhole
pitching caldera pit bravura courting
the bobsled vulva carnival
vulvaric curtsy testicular applause
security is a
Poetry Handbook
-- vulvavurvivalism
routing rooting rut to run
in the face of things – face-off
a factor of N factoring
transport from here this there
this parsimony of place
-- failure to deliver
the move-on imperative
Otherly is Brotherly
alterity traction
{trunk truculence lumbering budge
: mid range overtones
clue cluck click cluster clock
timing rhyming admix
steerage
pawn place claim check
because movement is life
Heller Levinson
(3 poems 09.07.10)
editor's note: Glibly go the grandly gripped, verbally whipped, staggering stackpole stanzas. Trip and tumble down these stairs not to a conclusion of wildy woven words but to the inkling sparking ilk of an idea. - mh
•••••••••••
Couplets
Couplets fall from your mouth
like loose change from my pockets
when I take my jeans off at night.
I walk to get a last drink of water
And your shirt hangs on the
Ladder-back chair,
You on the porch with a cigar
Sitting in your undershirt
in a rocker you built yourself
rhyming like breathing
making rhythms match
by re-working your heart beat
letting the pa-pum, pa-pum, fall
until the words spill out
in so soft a shower, I imagine
Dre’ and Aesop, and Atmosphere
leaninginhidingbehindthebushescreepingundertheporch
to find a rhyme to sample,
a word or rhythm that will light up airwaves for them
and fill the purse pockets.
Yet, you are here, haunting me,
mocking me with your presence
Me, all emotion, messy meter
You whisper in my ear late at night
I wake knowing news of
gatherings and opera houses,
elections and gallery openings,
rallies and famines and wars.
Tamitha Curiel
(1 poem added 09.06.10)
editor's note: So strong the old memories that sweep in when triggered by a smell or a sound or the faintest picture of something or someone. We are constructs of these. - mh
•••••••••••
Stuck In A Church
It is what I fear most, a priest.
Who seemed at first to be saying
‘You have little time left, lady’
by way of intoxicated stare. Hulk, of biblical body
adorned with mishmash infants cooing. Whipping me away
on some wine fuelled journey. Lips puckered up,
garments tightened to ripping point. Hovis flying!
Some visual God project to goodness knows where. I,
as reluctant as a lamb.
I, between corridors, semi-excused, snug as a ghost.
‘For the ways of man, are void of understanding’
so it is said. I am a dullard!
& the ways of HIM are Ox & instruction,
or Ox & oxygen, depending on how you determine it.
& they are thrones deep & they are pews wide, configurational,
laced with gemstones & ethereal matter.
Used to treat or to anaesthetise a subject.
Keeping distance at first – whatever I do now,
I’ll need to make it snappy & silent.
I need to act fast before my nerves crisp & my ears blast.
My face, takes on a paler shade of paler grey -
Ruffle my hair & I’ll sway like a zombie
in a rhythm displaced.
Feet firmly centred on 3 O’clock – lay waiting for an exit.
Holy man, beating up a storm of prayer
& endeavouring to round up this week’s sinners.
Hoping to stumble upon two or more hidden in a brook
or in the folds of his Babylonian cassock.
‘& he caused the children to pass through unscathed’
For who is God said the lord, but a wizard!
‘& he causeth the idle… hardship?… not only the idle,
but the tattlers also… destruction?
& the busybodies….ruin?...extreme violence? Huh?...execution?
……& those with beards……& those without beards….
& he smote them… …. Blood. Puke. Blood.
Calamity.…..6 shades of blood.
& he caused a whole heap of shit to go down!
& he caused our genitals to snap, or was that ‘gentiles?’
My own personal conclusion/ contribution,
& a great avoidance technique -
Swapping scripture for adventure. & at this point –
His 3 heads begin to bobble. Toes curdle up, appearing
more feeble than ever. He is losing it again to strangers.
I suspect deep down that he is quivering with a whole
bunch of ‘thou art’s’ in an attempt to resurrect this wretched
throng, though wavering toward apologetic means.
Head of a lion. Stagger of a tramp. Voice of a dandelion.
Yet, leaps he, from the pulpit like Judas!! – my lungs evaporate.
Palms turn into electronic fists, ready to spark & detonate.
Gripped around a copy of King James’s finest. Coins in hand – seconds become nights, huge moons & dried flowers. Footstalls become footballs, & fingers / pockets.
Calm will come soon enough. I recite the mantra in double time.
The congregation look unsettled, baton charged, unable to choose between light & oblivion. The air, garlic & fangs. The carpet, sawdust. Peace keepers may be needed here. –
Feet at shit o’clock - I reposition them again to 3, in a manner worthy of a fat maid’s curtsey. Eventually edging near. Pressing aside context, sub context - Talk of plague has arisen. Conjecture… Closer I push.
Body of a pirate, spirit of a bat. Light limbed – closer still - Suspecting I am merely an illusion. Desperately looking for… whatever it is I’m looking for. A door? A way outtttta here - We consider ourselves guilty of crimes we never commit. It’s fact.
The shape of normality? The suggestion of normal, nondescript, is measured & would provide a welcome addition to this jest fest of mine - Often bamboozles the unsuspecting thinker. Reduced now, to whimpering & tugging at sleeves. “Do men carry thorns?!” Mercilessly abandoning the Good Book, I scrap my idea for a sit-in.
God is wonderful! Brave! Awesome! though I would make a mule of him….tra la la la la & facing the archway, bone to brass – I tame it with a touch - Sword drawn.
I run like a mare, having given death the kiss off.
Deborah Gordon
(added 09.05.10)
editor's note: Amen, Sister! Now if you'll all stand and turn in your hymnals to number 666, let's all sing it like we mean it, I Am The Walrus." And, when they pass the plate, drop in a poem. - 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...
Remembering,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage.” Paul Engle
Underwater Fire #2 (above) by painter Jim Fuess, 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...
•••••••••••
Cold dogs in the back yard
There it was – in my pocket!
Oh, what a dangerous traveler I was – with a ticket!
Leaving my country for chasing a dream…
In my other pocket - what was left of my happiness
and luck. I was running away from the black dogs
of sorrow. I thought they can’t swim across the ocean.
I was wrong, of course.
And here I am, now. Sitting under the naked light bulb,
sipping the table wine, thinking “Is there a God?”
No answer at all!
I hear the barking of my neighbor’s dog. It is dark outside.
In some distant mountain I can feel the snow, I can hear
the wolves run in silence. And now all is so quiet!
The faucet in the kitchen is dripping, the pipes gurgle
and in my lap is this small, old poetry book. I search
for God in there. Nothing! Not even some divinity
of the Word. I continue my search. Outside gets darker than
black. The dog howls. I look up at the light and the brightness
burns my eyes, my wings start to flap. And all of a sudden
I hear a voice:
“Be careful! The bright watchers are still there!
Peycho Kanev
(2 poems added 09.11.10)
editor's note: Tickets. pockets, destinations, barking dogs. The language is the same. A hole is a hole, no matter where we dig it. And bright watchers are everywhere (More from Peycho on his page, check it out). - mh
•••••••••••
Giggling Mantras
I carry no water for
Thunder moon
The evening star
dances prophecies
into the phantasm
of the epic all
A celestial princess
Diamond eyes
Moon belly
Hair of the sun
Streaking light pillar rays
Tip-toeing secrets
Across your dream sky
Hiding them with whispers
Giggling mantras before
Daybreak Revolutions
Set my heart on fire
Sitting and talking
Blue twinkling
Distance is relative
Compare the heaven's
heart beats to mine
Meteorites wish their lovers
were that close.
Desmene M. Statum
(2 poems added 09.10.10)
editor's note: Shhhhhh. Listen... the cosmos are whispering in jealous angst, they covet Desmene's love - a hard love to come by. Only special incendiaries might attempt it. Many have failed, only to fizzle in the atmosphere - what a spectacle! (More from Dez on her poetry page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
I Need a BIG Whiskey
Said the man on the street
who shouted high to the rooftops
and low to the little children in the streets
between saxophone toot toot ta toots
that rang true to even seasoned musicians
on the Brooklyn streets.
"I'll give you what you need
if you can answer me one question:
How the hell you learn to play so well
like the devil blowin' when he takes a soul to hell?"
After tying a yellow looking shoelace
frayed more than those on my cleats from high school days
he cocked his head up.
"Funny you ask me that question
for the other day
some guy with a pitchfork
and a pointy tail sauntered by
and begged to know my secret.
Know what I told him?" he replied
as he crooked his finger my way.
I bent over to hear his secret.
And he said
- no shouted -
in my good ear
"I need a BIG whiskey."
After the ringing subsided
in my now other bad auditory canal
I slipped him a twenty.
Sax man shoved it
in his pocket, patted my shoulder
and told me his secret.
Today, you can find me
on a different street
playin' my horn
and asking for handouts
as I always seem to thirst
for more than I've got.
Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 09.09.10)
editor's note: That's a powerful thirst. We are always looking for that big drink; never satisfied, but writin', singin' and blowin' like we hope to get that BIG whiskey someday. Even if only at the Heavenly Bar . . . Thanks, Joseph! (Another good from Joseph on his poetry page - check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
Martyrdom
How quickly does the flower wilt and die,
And even quicker how her colors fade.
Her petals that were once raised to the sky
Have fallen off, head bowed as if to pray.
Plucked from her home, her roots are all but dry
Now she drinks her water from a jar
For now, of course, the shallows will suffice,
But stolen water only goes so far.
The poor dead flow’r, no longer on display
Is hidden, pressed upon a holy page.
In darkness and in silence now she prays
To be set free from this forgotten place.
What would she do though, if she were to go?
The darkness has become her only home.
Samantha Steves
(added 09.08.10)
editor's note: So many things we press between dark pages - flowers, fleeting fumbles, flashes of past perfections; we thought so at the time. - mh
•••••••••••
vulva like transversible wormhole
pitching caldera pit bravura courting
the bobsled vulva carnival
vulvaric curtsy testicular applause
security is a
Poetry Handbook
-- vulvavurvivalism
routing rooting rut to run
in the face of things – face-off
a factor of N factoring
transport from here this there
this parsimony of place
-- failure to deliver
the move-on imperative
Otherly is Brotherly
alterity traction
{trunk truculence lumbering budge
: mid range overtones
clue cluck click cluster clock
timing rhyming admix
steerage
pawn place claim check
because movement is life
Heller Levinson
(3 poems 09.07.10)
editor's note: Glibly go the grandly gripped, verbally whipped, staggering stackpole stanzas. Trip and tumble down these stairs not to a conclusion of wildy woven words but to the inkling sparking ilk of an idea. - mh
•••••••••••
Couplets
Couplets fall from your mouth
like loose change from my pockets
when I take my jeans off at night.
I walk to get a last drink of water
And your shirt hangs on the
Ladder-back chair,
You on the porch with a cigar
Sitting in your undershirt
in a rocker you built yourself
rhyming like breathing
making rhythms match
by re-working your heart beat
letting the pa-pum, pa-pum, fall
until the words spill out
in so soft a shower, I imagine
Dre’ and Aesop, and Atmosphere
leaninginhidingbehindthebushescreepingundertheporch
to find a rhyme to sample,
a word or rhythm that will light up airwaves for them
and fill the purse pockets.
Yet, you are here, haunting me,
mocking me with your presence
Me, all emotion, messy meter
You whisper in my ear late at night
I wake knowing news of
gatherings and opera houses,
elections and gallery openings,
rallies and famines and wars.
Tamitha Curiel
(1 poem added 09.06.10)
editor's note: So strong the old memories that sweep in when triggered by a smell or a sound or the faintest picture of something or someone. We are constructs of these. - mh
•••••••••••
Stuck In A Church
It is what I fear most, a priest.
Who seemed at first to be saying
‘You have little time left, lady’
by way of intoxicated stare. Hulk, of biblical body
adorned with mishmash infants cooing. Whipping me away
on some wine fuelled journey. Lips puckered up,
garments tightened to ripping point. Hovis flying!
Some visual God project to goodness knows where. I,
as reluctant as a lamb.
I, between corridors, semi-excused, snug as a ghost.
‘For the ways of man, are void of understanding’
so it is said. I am a dullard!
& the ways of HIM are Ox & instruction,
or Ox & oxygen, depending on how you determine it.
& they are thrones deep & they are pews wide, configurational,
laced with gemstones & ethereal matter.
Used to treat or to anaesthetise a subject.
Keeping distance at first – whatever I do now,
I’ll need to make it snappy & silent.
I need to act fast before my nerves crisp & my ears blast.
My face, takes on a paler shade of paler grey -
Ruffle my hair & I’ll sway like a zombie
in a rhythm displaced.
Feet firmly centred on 3 O’clock – lay waiting for an exit.
Holy man, beating up a storm of prayer
& endeavouring to round up this week’s sinners.
Hoping to stumble upon two or more hidden in a brook
or in the folds of his Babylonian cassock.
‘& he caused the children to pass through unscathed’
For who is God said the lord, but a wizard!
‘& he causeth the idle… hardship?… not only the idle,
but the tattlers also… destruction?
& the busybodies….ruin?...extreme violence? Huh?...execution?
……& those with beards……& those without beards….
& he smote them… …. Blood. Puke. Blood.
Calamity.…..6 shades of blood.
& he caused a whole heap of shit to go down!
& he caused our genitals to snap, or was that ‘gentiles?’
My own personal conclusion/ contribution,
& a great avoidance technique -
Swapping scripture for adventure. & at this point –
His 3 heads begin to bobble. Toes curdle up, appearing
more feeble than ever. He is losing it again to strangers.
I suspect deep down that he is quivering with a whole
bunch of ‘thou art’s’ in an attempt to resurrect this wretched
throng, though wavering toward apologetic means.
Head of a lion. Stagger of a tramp. Voice of a dandelion.
Yet, leaps he, from the pulpit like Judas!! – my lungs evaporate.
Palms turn into electronic fists, ready to spark & detonate.
Gripped around a copy of King James’s finest. Coins in hand – seconds become nights, huge moons & dried flowers. Footstalls become footballs, & fingers / pockets.
Calm will come soon enough. I recite the mantra in double time.
The congregation look unsettled, baton charged, unable to choose between light & oblivion. The air, garlic & fangs. The carpet, sawdust. Peace keepers may be needed here. –
Feet at shit o’clock - I reposition them again to 3, in a manner worthy of a fat maid’s curtsey. Eventually edging near. Pressing aside context, sub context - Talk of plague has arisen. Conjecture… Closer I push.
Body of a pirate, spirit of a bat. Light limbed – closer still - Suspecting I am merely an illusion. Desperately looking for… whatever it is I’m looking for. A door? A way outtttta here - We consider ourselves guilty of crimes we never commit. It’s fact.
The shape of normality? The suggestion of normal, nondescript, is measured & would provide a welcome addition to this jest fest of mine - Often bamboozles the unsuspecting thinker. Reduced now, to whimpering & tugging at sleeves. “Do men carry thorns?!” Mercilessly abandoning the Good Book, I scrap my idea for a sit-in.
God is wonderful! Brave! Awesome! though I would make a mule of him….tra la la la la & facing the archway, bone to brass – I tame it with a touch - Sword drawn.
I run like a mare, having given death the kiss off.
Deborah Gordon
(added 09.05.10)
editor's note: Amen, Sister! Now if you'll all stand and turn in your hymnals to number 666, let's all sing it like we mean it, I Am The Walrus." And, when they pass the plate, drop in a poem. - 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...
Remembering,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Comments