The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 11.27.10
“Madness is tonic and invigorating. It makes the sane more sane.” Henry Miller
Blue Pool (above) by mad painter Jon Marquette, 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...
•••••••••••
Metamorphosis Rex
Everything must change;
true enough,
but not frivolously so.
Not just for the sake of change.
The tree does not grow bored
with treedom
and turn into a pound cake
while the water can
and a ukulele
switch places
on a dare.
Everything is in the process of becoming.
Hell, even Ovid
and the caterpillar
know this.
Evolving
devolving
living
dying,
whatever the case
may be,
everything this side of immortality
must change,
but not just for the sake
of change.
Sometimes I’ll wear the same clothes
for a week
or more
just to prove what I’m saying.
Sometimes I’ll do it for no reason
at all.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 11.27.10)
editor's note: In our pursuit of happiness, we are sometimes too frugal, trying to round things down and keeping the change. With such sparse investment comes sparse return. Double down, bet it all, change often, change at random, take what comes and wear it well. - mh
•••••••••••
Dreamland
In the land of dreamers,
death men and women are walking
counting the days of the wars
to find their new days of a new world.
They have straight faces
and walk straight finding their own ways.
They look at each other straight.
They think straight.
They speak straight.
But they are death statues
walking on the ways of complicated darkness.
Within the colorless rays of the selfish Sun
they don't know their own colour.
If somebody stabs them
they don't feel the pain
because it has been familiar to them.
They don't even know
the colour of their own blood.
(Don't say they are dead,
they will get angry.)
They don't realize the difference between
life and death.
The sky covering them is meaningless.
Beneath them
they lost their own footprints on their ways
could not be seen and followed by others.
For every new battle,
the wombs of the experienced mothers
are the training centres of the unborn soldiers.
But the wombs usually burst into pieces
by the kicks of the babies inside.
So, the soldiers die unborn
in the Gynaecology wards of the hospitals.
The death bodies of the soldiers
will be found scattered and un-cremated
in the morgues of the hospitals
or fields or bushes or
mountains.
The mothers die on the beds or roads or markets
before they see their babies born.
The death mothers wake up
in the middle of the darkened night and running
all the ways possible
holding the burning bamboo lamp
falling from the sky.
Looking at the death faces of the stars
she is asking about her lost babies
that she has never seen.
Then they stitch their own wombs
to give birth to those soldiers again.
In the land of dreamers
Life and death have the same meaning
and same story.
Laxmi Prasad Bastola
(added 11.26.10)
editor's note: This dream, the one-time convergence of fantasy and fate, where there is not fate nor contrived destiny; each moment, each peril, must be hazarded. There are points to be won, after all. - mh
•••••••••••
Thanks
<24Nov10, ThanksEve>
I'm thinking about this T Day
This Thanks Day
Thanks for this
And thanks for that
But not much giving
At least as much as we get
ThanksGetting
So, this little gift from me
To say, Thanks for all I've got
This world of expressors
Singular confessors
Atoning for what they see
And how they see it
Casting their pearls
Towards me
That's remarkable
Truly thankworthy
So,
Thanks!
MH Clay
(1 poem added 11.25.10)
editor's note: A strange word, "Thanks." Sounds odd, doesn't it? Thought we'd share a poke at it. - mh
•••••••••••
STAY INSANE
If I could stay insane,
I could continue to hear
your sweet voice and
experience visions of you.
The medicine is a pain.
It takes away your voice
and your beautiful face.
I want to spit it out.
In reality you are gone
and I don’t know where
you live or know how to
contact you by phone or web.
When I am off my meds
you are always with me.
It’s a good thing for me,
but others do not agree.
I always end up kissing
the walls, fondling the air,
and calling your name.
In madness you are real to me.
You talk to me, you dance
with me, we make sweet love.
Everything happens like it was
supposed to happen.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(2 poems added 11.24.10)
editor's note: Yes, we embrace this madness! How else can anyone FEEL anything? Yes! (Another good one from Luis on his page - check out "TAKE OFF MY SKIN") - mh
•••••••••••
A Cold Encounter
I was talking with tired winds
(they said they have become too old to howl)
When you were melting my frozen bandages
then before I could pour my wasted years in the hollow cup
You came before my vegetarian eyes as a shallow bride
And made me suck your laughing blood and smoky eyes
While I was calming my silver wounds
(they said they have become too old to howl)
You were leaving with vigilant winds
one, two
one, two
they broke ceaselessly
Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 11.23.10)
editor's note: A case for movement to the middle in the healing of wounds. The doctor's prescription: Embrace the omnivore, empty the cup, invigorate the winds. - mh
•••••••••••
Much Like Rubens
I cannot catch
the rabbits
Dianne worked
very late on the sixth day
of God’s
great creation
as she constructed them
so quickly
in her rush to meet
the obligation
of God’s contract
to flesh out
a bunch of furry
little creatures
when God
stepped out
of our universe early
to join in happy hour
with the other gods
across the universe
so he could brag
about man
and gravity
and the rings
around Saturn.
Kenneth P. Gurney
(2 poems added 11.22.10)
editor's note: I heard the happy hour was at the union hall. There was a vote to expand the pension fund and another to elect the next shop steward. Meantime, the rabbits have multiplied... really, a lot. (read another one, just in, about donation without representation on Kenneth's page) - mh
•••••••••••
THE UNIVERSE DOES PROVIDE
For Steve Bridgens
Even after the sun
has long-since gone down,
the raw, kiln-like intensity
of a day like today
(here, in this overgrown cow town
in late July) can still be felt
well into the night.
The sidewalks and driveways
and newly resurfaced streets
continue to throw off enough heat,
all our overgrown yards enough jungle steam
(due to a brief but mean little thunderstorm
this morning that not even
the weatherman had foreseen)
that our clankity old window-unit
is forced to shift down a few degrees
into a lower, more determined gear.
Still, something has called us all out here
to the front porch, tonight;
maybe those recent reports of lightning on the horizon?
constellations of fireflies churning before our eyes?
the tidal pull of a fat, blood-orange of a moon?
or, just the inevitable madness of tiny rooms?
All we really need to know
(here on this not-so-disagreeable-night
in Kansas City, KS in late July) is
there's an hour of Mingus
coming up on the radio,
a 'fridge full of beer getting colder and colder
and a one-hitter already loaded up for you
and ready to go.
So, even though we all got jobs
that come calling way too early in the morning
and bills and debts that, over time, have become
highly resistant to our attempts at neutralizing them
and despite all the headlines and sound-bites
(detailing the latest home-grown inanity
or gruesome instance of international mayhem)
that appear to be conspiring to reinforce
the near-blasphemous notion that can
so easily lead one to believe otherwise,
from time to time
the universe does provide.
Jason Ryberg
(added 11.21.10)
editor's note: Yes, we praise goddess universe and ever look to reap her bounty - one-hitter an' all! Yessss, Jason! - 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...
Sanely Invigorated,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
••••••• 1st WEDNESDAY IS UPON US •••••••
Are you ready to get your madness on? It's been like a whole month since we got our swirlin'n'groovin' moves on and we are in the need for some mad mic action!
This 1st Wednesday starting at 8:00, Mad Swirl host Johnny O and co-host MH Clay, along with the musically magical trio Swirve open this mic and do our darndest to both blow and open your minds. We will be callin' all you swirlingly mad poets, musicians, dancers, actors, singers, performers & any other miscellaneous mad ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth area to come & strut your mad, mad stuff!
Come one, come all! Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to celebrate this open mic madness!
Interested in performing? Then show up the night of and get on the list!
Mad Swirl Open Mic: It's THE place to be on the first Wednesday of the month!
Where's this madness take place? Absinthe Lounge is at 1409 South Lamar Street, Dallas, TX 75215 (located in the SouthSide on Lamar building)
And please, by all means, FEEL FREE TO SPREAD THE WORD!
fo'mo'info' visit www.MadSwirl.com
“Either move or be moved.” Ezra Pound
Blue Pool (above) by mad painter Jon Marquette, 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...
•••••••••••
Metamorphosis Rex
Everything must change;
true enough,
but not frivolously so.
Not just for the sake of change.
The tree does not grow bored
with treedom
and turn into a pound cake
while the water can
and a ukulele
switch places
on a dare.
Everything is in the process of becoming.
Hell, even Ovid
and the caterpillar
know this.
Evolving
devolving
living
dying,
whatever the case
may be,
everything this side of immortality
must change,
but not just for the sake
of change.
Sometimes I’ll wear the same clothes
for a week
or more
just to prove what I’m saying.
Sometimes I’ll do it for no reason
at all.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 11.27.10)
editor's note: In our pursuit of happiness, we are sometimes too frugal, trying to round things down and keeping the change. With such sparse investment comes sparse return. Double down, bet it all, change often, change at random, take what comes and wear it well. - mh
•••••••••••
Dreamland
In the land of dreamers,
death men and women are walking
counting the days of the wars
to find their new days of a new world.
They have straight faces
and walk straight finding their own ways.
They look at each other straight.
They think straight.
They speak straight.
But they are death statues
walking on the ways of complicated darkness.
Within the colorless rays of the selfish Sun
they don't know their own colour.
If somebody stabs them
they don't feel the pain
because it has been familiar to them.
They don't even know
the colour of their own blood.
(Don't say they are dead,
they will get angry.)
They don't realize the difference between
life and death.
The sky covering them is meaningless.
Beneath them
they lost their own footprints on their ways
could not be seen and followed by others.
For every new battle,
the wombs of the experienced mothers
are the training centres of the unborn soldiers.
But the wombs usually burst into pieces
by the kicks of the babies inside.
So, the soldiers die unborn
in the Gynaecology wards of the hospitals.
The death bodies of the soldiers
will be found scattered and un-cremated
in the morgues of the hospitals
or fields or bushes or
mountains.
The mothers die on the beds or roads or markets
before they see their babies born.
The death mothers wake up
in the middle of the darkened night and running
all the ways possible
holding the burning bamboo lamp
falling from the sky.
Looking at the death faces of the stars
she is asking about her lost babies
that she has never seen.
Then they stitch their own wombs
to give birth to those soldiers again.
In the land of dreamers
Life and death have the same meaning
and same story.
Laxmi Prasad Bastola
(added 11.26.10)
editor's note: This dream, the one-time convergence of fantasy and fate, where there is not fate nor contrived destiny; each moment, each peril, must be hazarded. There are points to be won, after all. - mh
•••••••••••
Thanks
<24Nov10, ThanksEve>
I'm thinking about this T Day
This Thanks Day
Thanks for this
And thanks for that
But not much giving
At least as much as we get
ThanksGetting
So, this little gift from me
To say, Thanks for all I've got
This world of expressors
Singular confessors
Atoning for what they see
And how they see it
Casting their pearls
Towards me
That's remarkable
Truly thankworthy
So,
Thanks!
MH Clay
(1 poem added 11.25.10)
editor's note: A strange word, "Thanks." Sounds odd, doesn't it? Thought we'd share a poke at it. - mh
•••••••••••
STAY INSANE
If I could stay insane,
I could continue to hear
your sweet voice and
experience visions of you.
The medicine is a pain.
It takes away your voice
and your beautiful face.
I want to spit it out.
In reality you are gone
and I don’t know where
you live or know how to
contact you by phone or web.
When I am off my meds
you are always with me.
It’s a good thing for me,
but others do not agree.
I always end up kissing
the walls, fondling the air,
and calling your name.
In madness you are real to me.
You talk to me, you dance
with me, we make sweet love.
Everything happens like it was
supposed to happen.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(2 poems added 11.24.10)
editor's note: Yes, we embrace this madness! How else can anyone FEEL anything? Yes! (Another good one from Luis on his page - check out "TAKE OFF MY SKIN") - mh
•••••••••••
A Cold Encounter
I was talking with tired winds
(they said they have become too old to howl)
When you were melting my frozen bandages
then before I could pour my wasted years in the hollow cup
You came before my vegetarian eyes as a shallow bride
And made me suck your laughing blood and smoky eyes
While I was calming my silver wounds
(they said they have become too old to howl)
You were leaving with vigilant winds
one, two
one, two
they broke ceaselessly
Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 11.23.10)
editor's note: A case for movement to the middle in the healing of wounds. The doctor's prescription: Embrace the omnivore, empty the cup, invigorate the winds. - mh
•••••••••••
Much Like Rubens
I cannot catch
the rabbits
Dianne worked
very late on the sixth day
of God’s
great creation
as she constructed them
so quickly
in her rush to meet
the obligation
of God’s contract
to flesh out
a bunch of furry
little creatures
when God
stepped out
of our universe early
to join in happy hour
with the other gods
across the universe
so he could brag
about man
and gravity
and the rings
around Saturn.
Kenneth P. Gurney
(2 poems added 11.22.10)
editor's note: I heard the happy hour was at the union hall. There was a vote to expand the pension fund and another to elect the next shop steward. Meantime, the rabbits have multiplied... really, a lot. (read another one, just in, about donation without representation on Kenneth's page) - mh
•••••••••••
THE UNIVERSE DOES PROVIDE
For Steve Bridgens
Even after the sun
has long-since gone down,
the raw, kiln-like intensity
of a day like today
(here, in this overgrown cow town
in late July) can still be felt
well into the night.
The sidewalks and driveways
and newly resurfaced streets
continue to throw off enough heat,
all our overgrown yards enough jungle steam
(due to a brief but mean little thunderstorm
this morning that not even
the weatherman had foreseen)
that our clankity old window-unit
is forced to shift down a few degrees
into a lower, more determined gear.
Still, something has called us all out here
to the front porch, tonight;
maybe those recent reports of lightning on the horizon?
constellations of fireflies churning before our eyes?
the tidal pull of a fat, blood-orange of a moon?
or, just the inevitable madness of tiny rooms?
All we really need to know
(here on this not-so-disagreeable-night
in Kansas City, KS in late July) is
there's an hour of Mingus
coming up on the radio,
a 'fridge full of beer getting colder and colder
and a one-hitter already loaded up for you
and ready to go.
So, even though we all got jobs
that come calling way too early in the morning
and bills and debts that, over time, have become
highly resistant to our attempts at neutralizing them
and despite all the headlines and sound-bites
(detailing the latest home-grown inanity
or gruesome instance of international mayhem)
that appear to be conspiring to reinforce
the near-blasphemous notion that can
so easily lead one to believe otherwise,
from time to time
the universe does provide.
Jason Ryberg
(added 11.21.10)
editor's note: Yes, we praise goddess universe and ever look to reap her bounty - one-hitter an' all! Yessss, Jason! - 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...
Sanely Invigorated,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
••••••• 1st WEDNESDAY IS UPON US •••••••
Are you ready to get your madness on? It's been like a whole month since we got our swirlin'n'groovin' moves on and we are in the need for some mad mic action!
This 1st Wednesday starting at 8:00, Mad Swirl host Johnny O and co-host MH Clay, along with the musically magical trio Swirve open this mic and do our darndest to both blow and open your minds. We will be callin' all you swirlingly mad poets, musicians, dancers, actors, singers, performers & any other miscellaneous mad ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth area to come & strut your mad, mad stuff!
Come one, come all! Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to celebrate this open mic madness!
Interested in performing? Then show up the night of and get on the list!
Mad Swirl Open Mic: It's THE place to be on the first Wednesday of the month!
Where's this madness take place? Absinthe Lounge is at 1409 South Lamar Street, Dallas, TX 75215 (located in the SouthSide on Lamar building)
And please, by all means, FEEL FREE TO SPREAD THE WORD!
fo'mo'info' visit www.MadSwirl.com
“Either move or be moved.” Ezra Pound
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