The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 12.18.10
“Do not quench your inspiration and your imagination” Vincent Van Gogh
Croatia (above) by our featured artist and 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...
•••••••••••
Citizen Pain
don’t let them fool you
it's not about the process
and it's not about the journey
trust me, it's
about getting there
grabbing what you can
be it a trophy or the cash
the lover or the applause
and then hoarding the spoils
of your riches and
surrounding it with a fortress
built by bricks of fear
and mortar of selfishness
and holding on
with all your might
until you must let go
and say, "Rosebud"
Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 12.18.10)
editor's note: Yeah, well, what the hell! Cash that check and take that vacation. You've earned it! (Another one from Ivan on his page - the ultimate Tell-Off. Check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
in her head
her aura is opaque
Spring green eyes, a trademark
the passive frown she holds
claims all takers
after three weeks in therapy
her answers are getting vague
apparently
or perhaps it's the questions
lulling her into lies
I saw her in the hall today
this corridor of shame
where a head held high threatens all
and somehow a smile, confesses truth
I asked if she felt like smoking with me
you know, outside
where light has a color
and sounds refute sterility
but she couldn't answer right then
as the first pill of the day had her
in my ignorance, I smiled and said
nothing, yet she had heard enough
from me
and I watched her pass
washing the walls with her palms
each tile an important tone
a texture only she could feel
I wanted her to turn back
but my role call was next
and I had a story to design
for the smiles that love to listen
between coffee breaks and paperwork
Rob Dyer
(1 poem added 12.17.10)
editor's note: It's a rough ride in a head like that, if you're lookin' for anything but a soul spanking. This kind of torture is made for the back-handed, unconscious spurn. Can't see beyond the brain-cinema-playback of all those painful scenes that surely must be her fault... - mh
•••••••••••
BACK STEP
Bring me down
from my madness
a high
acceleration
pumping
me into more
than I really am
ease into me
my only woman
crying
this time and ever
dwelling in your eyes
where I should
have never left.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
(1 poem added 12.16.10)
editor's note: Yes, taken a few o' them steps back m'self; back to ma 'n pa after some crazy chemical cacophonous night; back to my sweet love after another, wilder, whipped-er than the first; back to m'self after stepping so far out, I thought I mighta snapped the chord - soul afloat, body emptied - too soon, into the void. Back, baby, back! - mh
•••••••••••
These Days
There is a shift, sometimes,
you can feel it if you lay very still at night,
while the rest of this city is sleeping.
You’ll feel the shift, like a crack.
And it’s down there
in that space between yesterday and today
in that never-was time,
that I fear I’m slipping into these days.
So instead of me, I’ll fill it with these things I carry,
with the journals I have kept
words inked with a dead octopus
on paper brittle and cracking
but always words,
with the postcards
and broken down carburetors
and sand from the beach
with the conversations
whispered over the tops of baby heads
and inside stalled cars in the rain
the wipers frantic like a dying creature.
With the stories I’ve told and retold and changed
so often that even I believe it might have happened that way,
with the rocks from English countryside
and the coasters from the cafes in Paris,
and the maps of Spain,
with the dust of too many silent months,
settling over my lungs,
with the broken keys of pianos
and snapped violin strings,
with the teeth that are falling out
and the stubbed toes and the banged knee
and the broken skull
and the tongues of dead boys.
And especially little letters like this,
from you,
slipped under my door,
that if stacked one on top of another
could reach the top of buildings
all begging for the same forgiveness
that I’m not so generous with,
these days.
Ally Malinenko
(1 poem added 12.15.10)
editor's note: The best told versions of ourselves come with years passed, objects accumulated and apologies proffered. - mh
•••••••••••
Origin
for K.
Here is the place where you swore you would never
return, to the streets without sidewalks, the crabgrass
that cut through the holes in your shoes. To the nights
when your mother would stand at the window, watching
the neighbor’s sons succumb to the sirens, pulled deep
by the lights and their high wire song. Crossing herself,
she pocketed her cigarettes and thanked God you were born
a girl. Or the ashen mornings when your father predicted
that your best friend would either run for congress or go to jail.
Here is the corner where you stood shivering in shirtsleeves,
when you learned that he had chosen the latter.
This is the lie you told yourself, that you pretended
he had a choice at all. This is the future we saw foretold,
even you: his death anticipated by recurring offenses, hard arms
in sleeves of blue-black ink, a premature daughter
born with cinnamon eyes, his teenage jaw full of sallow teeth
that never saw braces or fluoride, the power-blue
report cards that he shredded and buried under muddy
rocks near the creek. It is the place where your childhood
gave birth to its burdens, leaving you slack and smothered
with the weight of the living. It is a still-born child that you
carry here, in the space between your ribs and your lungs.
Audrey Walls
(added 12.14.10)
editor's note: Some geographies hold more rough terrain, unmarked crossroads and forgotten landmarks than any atlas can document. Can't buy a map to your memory lanes, but stand in the right place and... - mh
•••••••••••
poet
I was meant to wander
to drip lazy through the days
melt across the roadway
and seep into forever
one drop at a time
I was meant to linger
to slip quietly through the nights
drift above the rooftops
and evaporate into dawn
one atom at a time
I was meant to ponder
to sink madly into oblivion
drink in the galaxies
and swallow the universe
one star at a time
I was meant to wonder
to gaze longingly into devastation
embrace the ache
and absorb all of eternity
one breath at a time
Kristine Jessup
(added 12.13.10)
editor's note: How do you swallow a star? One bite at a time. Become a celestial food critic and write about the experience - one word at a time. - mh
•••••••••••
Gangsta Lean
Diamond in the back
Sun roof top
Diggin the scene
With a gangsta lean roof
On the stroll near
the 1 hr motel no tell
Dos dinero para pinoche
Afro wig bigger than my face
Red river in one hand
choking on a eve filter
Diamond in the back
Sun roof top
Diggin the scene
with a gangsta lean roof
getting a primo from Caroline
Cornbread’s main stable
“Look at the trick’s shoes,
“a narc’s shoes are always too shiny”
'Naw bitch', Jean Nate chimes in
'That’s just a trick that likes nice shoes,
Look at his hair cut, if it’s too short he’s 5 0'
Diamond in the back
Sun roof top
Diggin the scene
With a gangsta lean roof
Touching up my Flori Roberts lipstick
in the bar’s mirror
feeling as old as my fake id
a man fits a drink into my hand
‘wanna date’ I smile
I look at his scuffed shoes, long hair
walk outside with him
Popping my gum
Gayle Bell
(1 poem added 12.12.10)
editor's note: What do we see first, but shoes and hair? No matter the neighbor 'hood, we're lookin' at shoes and hair. (Nice to hear back from a Swirler who's been on hiatus - welcome back, Gayle Bell!) - 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...
Thirsting,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Croatia (above) by our featured artist and 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...
•••••••••••
Citizen Pain
don’t let them fool you
it's not about the process
and it's not about the journey
trust me, it's
about getting there
grabbing what you can
be it a trophy or the cash
the lover or the applause
and then hoarding the spoils
of your riches and
surrounding it with a fortress
built by bricks of fear
and mortar of selfishness
and holding on
with all your might
until you must let go
and say, "Rosebud"
Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 12.18.10)
editor's note: Yeah, well, what the hell! Cash that check and take that vacation. You've earned it! (Another one from Ivan on his page - the ultimate Tell-Off. Check it out.) - mh
•••••••••••
in her head
her aura is opaque
Spring green eyes, a trademark
the passive frown she holds
claims all takers
after three weeks in therapy
her answers are getting vague
apparently
or perhaps it's the questions
lulling her into lies
I saw her in the hall today
this corridor of shame
where a head held high threatens all
and somehow a smile, confesses truth
I asked if she felt like smoking with me
you know, outside
where light has a color
and sounds refute sterility
but she couldn't answer right then
as the first pill of the day had her
in my ignorance, I smiled and said
nothing, yet she had heard enough
from me
and I watched her pass
washing the walls with her palms
each tile an important tone
a texture only she could feel
I wanted her to turn back
but my role call was next
and I had a story to design
for the smiles that love to listen
between coffee breaks and paperwork
Rob Dyer
(1 poem added 12.17.10)
editor's note: It's a rough ride in a head like that, if you're lookin' for anything but a soul spanking. This kind of torture is made for the back-handed, unconscious spurn. Can't see beyond the brain-cinema-playback of all those painful scenes that surely must be her fault... - mh
•••••••••••
BACK STEP
Bring me down
from my madness
a high
acceleration
pumping
me into more
than I really am
ease into me
my only woman
crying
this time and ever
dwelling in your eyes
where I should
have never left.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
(1 poem added 12.16.10)
editor's note: Yes, taken a few o' them steps back m'self; back to ma 'n pa after some crazy chemical cacophonous night; back to my sweet love after another, wilder, whipped-er than the first; back to m'self after stepping so far out, I thought I mighta snapped the chord - soul afloat, body emptied - too soon, into the void. Back, baby, back! - mh
•••••••••••
These Days
There is a shift, sometimes,
you can feel it if you lay very still at night,
while the rest of this city is sleeping.
You’ll feel the shift, like a crack.
And it’s down there
in that space between yesterday and today
in that never-was time,
that I fear I’m slipping into these days.
So instead of me, I’ll fill it with these things I carry,
with the journals I have kept
words inked with a dead octopus
on paper brittle and cracking
but always words,
with the postcards
and broken down carburetors
and sand from the beach
with the conversations
whispered over the tops of baby heads
and inside stalled cars in the rain
the wipers frantic like a dying creature.
With the stories I’ve told and retold and changed
so often that even I believe it might have happened that way,
with the rocks from English countryside
and the coasters from the cafes in Paris,
and the maps of Spain,
with the dust of too many silent months,
settling over my lungs,
with the broken keys of pianos
and snapped violin strings,
with the teeth that are falling out
and the stubbed toes and the banged knee
and the broken skull
and the tongues of dead boys.
And especially little letters like this,
from you,
slipped under my door,
that if stacked one on top of another
could reach the top of buildings
all begging for the same forgiveness
that I’m not so generous with,
these days.
Ally Malinenko
(1 poem added 12.15.10)
editor's note: The best told versions of ourselves come with years passed, objects accumulated and apologies proffered. - mh
•••••••••••
Origin
for K.
Here is the place where you swore you would never
return, to the streets without sidewalks, the crabgrass
that cut through the holes in your shoes. To the nights
when your mother would stand at the window, watching
the neighbor’s sons succumb to the sirens, pulled deep
by the lights and their high wire song. Crossing herself,
she pocketed her cigarettes and thanked God you were born
a girl. Or the ashen mornings when your father predicted
that your best friend would either run for congress or go to jail.
Here is the corner where you stood shivering in shirtsleeves,
when you learned that he had chosen the latter.
This is the lie you told yourself, that you pretended
he had a choice at all. This is the future we saw foretold,
even you: his death anticipated by recurring offenses, hard arms
in sleeves of blue-black ink, a premature daughter
born with cinnamon eyes, his teenage jaw full of sallow teeth
that never saw braces or fluoride, the power-blue
report cards that he shredded and buried under muddy
rocks near the creek. It is the place where your childhood
gave birth to its burdens, leaving you slack and smothered
with the weight of the living. It is a still-born child that you
carry here, in the space between your ribs and your lungs.
Audrey Walls
(added 12.14.10)
editor's note: Some geographies hold more rough terrain, unmarked crossroads and forgotten landmarks than any atlas can document. Can't buy a map to your memory lanes, but stand in the right place and... - mh
•••••••••••
poet
I was meant to wander
to drip lazy through the days
melt across the roadway
and seep into forever
one drop at a time
I was meant to linger
to slip quietly through the nights
drift above the rooftops
and evaporate into dawn
one atom at a time
I was meant to ponder
to sink madly into oblivion
drink in the galaxies
and swallow the universe
one star at a time
I was meant to wonder
to gaze longingly into devastation
embrace the ache
and absorb all of eternity
one breath at a time
Kristine Jessup
(added 12.13.10)
editor's note: How do you swallow a star? One bite at a time. Become a celestial food critic and write about the experience - one word at a time. - mh
•••••••••••
Gangsta Lean
Diamond in the back
Sun roof top
Diggin the scene
With a gangsta lean roof
On the stroll near
the 1 hr motel no tell
Dos dinero para pinoche
Afro wig bigger than my face
Red river in one hand
choking on a eve filter
Diamond in the back
Sun roof top
Diggin the scene
with a gangsta lean roof
getting a primo from Caroline
Cornbread’s main stable
“Look at the trick’s shoes,
“a narc’s shoes are always too shiny”
'Naw bitch', Jean Nate chimes in
'That’s just a trick that likes nice shoes,
Look at his hair cut, if it’s too short he’s 5 0'
Diamond in the back
Sun roof top
Diggin the scene
With a gangsta lean roof
Touching up my Flori Roberts lipstick
in the bar’s mirror
feeling as old as my fake id
a man fits a drink into my hand
‘wanna date’ I smile
I look at his scuffed shoes, long hair
walk outside with him
Popping my gum
Gayle Bell
(1 poem added 12.12.10)
editor's note: What do we see first, but shoes and hair? No matter the neighbor 'hood, we're lookin' at shoes and hair. (Nice to hear back from a Swirler who's been on hiatus - welcome back, Gayle Bell!) - 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...
Thirsting,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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