The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 01.01.11
“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.” Seneca
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
It’s all very tragic
It’s all very tragic. A woman in the park has begun screaming,
she’s hell-bent on screaming – Christ, and no wonder,
she has fresh blood on her lips.
She tells me how badly her gums hurt.
Whom should I approach for advice: the lady over there
with the crooked half-smile, or the man whose eyebrows are knitted together?
It’s all very tragic.
Deborah Gordon
(added 01.01.11)
editor's note: The headline in the local rag would read, Sickly Screamer Seeks Succor from Stranger. And still we wouldn't know what to do with that. - mh
•••••••••••
bulbs
and to think, i almost believed you when you said:
that you lost your ring
in the backyard while you were burying bulbs
in the garden,
and
that it was in the ground somewhere,
probably half way to china by now,
and
that it wasn’t even worth looking for
at this point,
because if it was you
tunneling through the backyard,
trying to escape,
you wouldn’t want anybody to go digging you up.
Andrew Chmielowiec
(added 12.31.10)
editor's note: Maybe, lost subterranean memories should be left where they're buried to come back in the Spring, as new love or old roses. - mh
•••••••••••
humanism is a manicured haiku
tequila emptied –
keep one another warm
cushions in a heap
the toilet in a blue rinse –
his bleached shirt cuffs
palisade wool
jack of hearts tabled
whose belongings?
stare, then watched silence
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
(added 12.30.10)
editor's note: Much to do on a solitary evening; all that drinking and thinking and staring... It's a mirror shot (or is that a tequila shot?). - mh
A Friend in Nogent-sur-Seine is the Next Best Thing
A car that crashed through the guardrails
into the four-foot deep river
didn’t wake her
it didn’t make her
learn French
any faster now
the birds will have their final go
around the swell
in this way
the silent cardinal trailing the tree bark’s dust
won’t seem
foreign
just absent
breathing
in leaves
the way one drinks
in water
the way no one says
quelle tragédie
when the river is dragged
Matthew Daddona
(added 12.29.10)
editor's note: Damn these tricksy poets; spinning out such stories to play in our heads. All angles shot in sepia or gray, all emotions drawn from us to drive the story, drive that car through the guardrails, drive us to learn to speak French. Thanks, Matthew D! - mh
•••••••••••
Battle Island
At Black Hawk Recreation Park
I crouch with my six year old nephew
and gaze into Bad Axe River
once tainted red with the blood of fleeing Indians
all whom surrendered only to be massacred—
women, children, warriors.
Mosquitoes buzz about our ears
and my nephew refuses to swat them,
for he says they must eat too.
Instead, he upturns his half white
forearm, while three suck the red out.
I can almost hear the gunshots.
The boat’s cannon fire. Screams—
Give your blood to this land.
Mathias Nelson
(3 poems added 12.28.10)
editor's note: Children at play, so serious. The adult entry should be plainly marked, "Ages 6 and down." (Welcome back Mathias Nelson to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets! See a couple other new ones from him now - a nice stir!) - mh
•••••••••••
Foolish Fragile Thing
How foolish and meaningless life is.
All the thousands upon thousands of hours
it took to create you
just as you were.
All your ideas of spiritual progression
and growth and
wanting something more than this.
Your laugh
Your smile
and the way you approached a problem
from different angles than most would
coming up with a unique point of view.
All this.
All this went into making up you,
then one day something foolish,
you breath in water
instead of air
asleep for a moment
a stupid fucking moment,
and where is all this!?
All this that made up you?
All this that the man who loved you
who adored you
who worshipped you
couldn’t seem to save!!!
in a moment,
a fucking moment!!
How fragile and frail
this thing we call life is!
How foolish.
How without purpose.
We sit and we talk
Hours upon hours
about our meanings
about our values
about how we are unique
and special and different
from everyone else,
and yet
still you are gone.
gone
gone
gone
Gone in an instant
your face like that
peaceful
haunting
the stuff of nightmares.
You were special and you were unique,
you were nearer to god than most
yet still you are gone.
Your eyes and toes and opinions.
Your words and mouth and promises
Your love for children
and music and me,
all are gone.
And this stupid thing
this man that loved you
is still hanging on,
hanging on for some reason
as if any of it means anything
as if it is not all as fragile
as an eggshell
or glass
or a foolish notion.
Where the hell are you?!?
All the things that made up you!?
All those hours
all those important ideas
and notions of the way things are.
What are you now that you are gone?
Just a memory in me?!?
Then, when I go
through some fragile
decision or another,
what are you then?
Where do you exist?!?!?
With all the time and effort
the universe put into creating
the one and only you that was you
why would it fucking let that go?!?
Are we all just foolish deluded bacteria
with some special illusion of grandeur
granted by evolution
in order to perpetuate our species
for whatever reason it exists?!?
Were we ever more than just
two foolish self-aware moments in space time
calling themselves artists
talking and talking late into the night?!?
Why then do I miss you so?!?
Why do I feel so incomplete without you?
If we are just tiny organisms in the scheme of things
perhaps we were symbiotic,
two creatures existing as one
perhaps I needed you
perhaps I needed you
perhaps I waited and waited and waited for you
like desert air waits for nightfall
like Spring waits for rain
like I waited for you
my entire foolish fragile life
only to kiss you
only to lose you
to lose you
to lose you
to lose you
in a moment.
It feels foolish and fragile
and meaningless
to be here
without you now.
My GOD!
My love,
my god...
Paul Sexton
(3 poems added 12.27.10)
editor's note: Poeticus Mundi tells us more of his story. We are compelled to live it with him and are still ever amazed at how life is stranger than fiction. (Two more from Paul on his page, please check them out - they will touch your heart.) - mh
•••••••••••
Clean Sheets
A blessed child, precious, adored, no need
to hoard love under the bed…
soft, warm, clean sheets
made of crisp linen and percale
ready to swallow men whole
in an ocean
of hungry satisfaction
addicted so addicted
by twenty
had men beckoning
on knees, so many knees with flowers
roses, orchids, lustily open
wanting to be touched
held in my arms
rocked
on my hips
bounced in my lap
never enough, two, three
fifteen
never enough, need to feel
their need
desperate torture -- call it
cruel punishment -- never have me
for themselves
knowing youth is fleeting
pain apparent
need a fix
or I’ll wither away, twisted
contorted in lonely
lost despair
overwhelmed, with mountains to cling
so I bury my lust/love deep
inside my toes
curled tight, locked away
my face blank for ten years
no words, no poetry, only anger, bushels
and bushels of misplaced anger
no sex, no lust
no love, no passion, no wicked thoughts
now thirty, leaking out, my desire leaking out
every pore, every opening
like a flood
like the Mississippi, rising up and over
no where to go
first my neighbor, then on to others
uncontrolled pleasure, consuming everything
in its path
never free
I will never swim free
I would sleep
with you
first.
Sheree La Puma Watson
(1 poem added 12.26.10)
editor's note: We are the candy, consumed and consigned to be chalk marks on her tally board. She is counting up her victories, counting down her emptiness to zero; quiet nothingness. One day she will be satisfied... just not today. - 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...
On the road,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
••••••• 1st WEDNESDAY OF 2011 IS UPON US •••••••
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, / and never brought to mind? / Should auld acquaintance be forgot / and days of auld lang syne? You know what we say? F@ck Yeah! Let's leave 2010 behind us where it belongs and ring in the 2011 in swirling mad style!
0n 01.05.11, starting at 8:00-ish, Mad Swirl will continue doing the open mic voodoo that what we do do on and into 2011! Join host Johnny O and co-host MH Clay, along with the musically magical trio Swirve and the usual unusual mad suspects as we 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
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
It’s all very tragic
It’s all very tragic. A woman in the park has begun screaming,
she’s hell-bent on screaming – Christ, and no wonder,
she has fresh blood on her lips.
She tells me how badly her gums hurt.
Whom should I approach for advice: the lady over there
with the crooked half-smile, or the man whose eyebrows are knitted together?
It’s all very tragic.
Deborah Gordon
(added 01.01.11)
editor's note: The headline in the local rag would read, Sickly Screamer Seeks Succor from Stranger. And still we wouldn't know what to do with that. - mh
•••••••••••
bulbs
and to think, i almost believed you when you said:
that you lost your ring
in the backyard while you were burying bulbs
in the garden,
and
that it was in the ground somewhere,
probably half way to china by now,
and
that it wasn’t even worth looking for
at this point,
because if it was you
tunneling through the backyard,
trying to escape,
you wouldn’t want anybody to go digging you up.
Andrew Chmielowiec
(added 12.31.10)
editor's note: Maybe, lost subterranean memories should be left where they're buried to come back in the Spring, as new love or old roses. - mh
•••••••••••
humanism is a manicured haiku
tequila emptied –
keep one another warm
cushions in a heap
the toilet in a blue rinse –
his bleached shirt cuffs
palisade wool
jack of hearts tabled
whose belongings?
stare, then watched silence
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
(added 12.30.10)
editor's note: Much to do on a solitary evening; all that drinking and thinking and staring... It's a mirror shot (or is that a tequila shot?). - mh
A Friend in Nogent-sur-Seine is the Next Best Thing
A car that crashed through the guardrails
into the four-foot deep river
didn’t wake her
it didn’t make her
learn French
any faster now
the birds will have their final go
around the swell
in this way
the silent cardinal trailing the tree bark’s dust
won’t seem
foreign
just absent
breathing
in leaves
the way one drinks
in water
the way no one says
quelle tragédie
when the river is dragged
Matthew Daddona
(added 12.29.10)
editor's note: Damn these tricksy poets; spinning out such stories to play in our heads. All angles shot in sepia or gray, all emotions drawn from us to drive the story, drive that car through the guardrails, drive us to learn to speak French. Thanks, Matthew D! - mh
•••••••••••
Battle Island
At Black Hawk Recreation Park
I crouch with my six year old nephew
and gaze into Bad Axe River
once tainted red with the blood of fleeing Indians
all whom surrendered only to be massacred—
women, children, warriors.
Mosquitoes buzz about our ears
and my nephew refuses to swat them,
for he says they must eat too.
Instead, he upturns his half white
forearm, while three suck the red out.
I can almost hear the gunshots.
The boat’s cannon fire. Screams—
Give your blood to this land.
Mathias Nelson
(3 poems added 12.28.10)
editor's note: Children at play, so serious. The adult entry should be plainly marked, "Ages 6 and down." (Welcome back Mathias Nelson to our crazy conclave of Contributing Poets! See a couple other new ones from him now - a nice stir!) - mh
•••••••••••
Foolish Fragile Thing
How foolish and meaningless life is.
All the thousands upon thousands of hours
it took to create you
just as you were.
All your ideas of spiritual progression
and growth and
wanting something more than this.
Your laugh
Your smile
and the way you approached a problem
from different angles than most would
coming up with a unique point of view.
All this.
All this went into making up you,
then one day something foolish,
you breath in water
instead of air
asleep for a moment
a stupid fucking moment,
and where is all this!?
All this that made up you?
All this that the man who loved you
who adored you
who worshipped you
couldn’t seem to save!!!
in a moment,
a fucking moment!!
How fragile and frail
this thing we call life is!
How foolish.
How without purpose.
We sit and we talk
Hours upon hours
about our meanings
about our values
about how we are unique
and special and different
from everyone else,
and yet
still you are gone.
gone
gone
gone
Gone in an instant
your face like that
peaceful
haunting
the stuff of nightmares.
You were special and you were unique,
you were nearer to god than most
yet still you are gone.
Your eyes and toes and opinions.
Your words and mouth and promises
Your love for children
and music and me,
all are gone.
And this stupid thing
this man that loved you
is still hanging on,
hanging on for some reason
as if any of it means anything
as if it is not all as fragile
as an eggshell
or glass
or a foolish notion.
Where the hell are you?!?
All the things that made up you!?
All those hours
all those important ideas
and notions of the way things are.
What are you now that you are gone?
Just a memory in me?!?
Then, when I go
through some fragile
decision or another,
what are you then?
Where do you exist?!?!?
With all the time and effort
the universe put into creating
the one and only you that was you
why would it fucking let that go?!?
Are we all just foolish deluded bacteria
with some special illusion of grandeur
granted by evolution
in order to perpetuate our species
for whatever reason it exists?!?
Were we ever more than just
two foolish self-aware moments in space time
calling themselves artists
talking and talking late into the night?!?
Why then do I miss you so?!?
Why do I feel so incomplete without you?
If we are just tiny organisms in the scheme of things
perhaps we were symbiotic,
two creatures existing as one
perhaps I needed you
perhaps I needed you
perhaps I waited and waited and waited for you
like desert air waits for nightfall
like Spring waits for rain
like I waited for you
my entire foolish fragile life
only to kiss you
only to lose you
to lose you
to lose you
to lose you
in a moment.
It feels foolish and fragile
and meaningless
to be here
without you now.
My GOD!
My love,
my god...
Paul Sexton
(3 poems added 12.27.10)
editor's note: Poeticus Mundi tells us more of his story. We are compelled to live it with him and are still ever amazed at how life is stranger than fiction. (Two more from Paul on his page, please check them out - they will touch your heart.) - mh
•••••••••••
Clean Sheets
A blessed child, precious, adored, no need
to hoard love under the bed…
soft, warm, clean sheets
made of crisp linen and percale
ready to swallow men whole
in an ocean
of hungry satisfaction
addicted so addicted
by twenty
had men beckoning
on knees, so many knees with flowers
roses, orchids, lustily open
wanting to be touched
held in my arms
rocked
on my hips
bounced in my lap
never enough, two, three
fifteen
never enough, need to feel
their need
desperate torture -- call it
cruel punishment -- never have me
for themselves
knowing youth is fleeting
pain apparent
need a fix
or I’ll wither away, twisted
contorted in lonely
lost despair
overwhelmed, with mountains to cling
so I bury my lust/love deep
inside my toes
curled tight, locked away
my face blank for ten years
no words, no poetry, only anger, bushels
and bushels of misplaced anger
no sex, no lust
no love, no passion, no wicked thoughts
now thirty, leaking out, my desire leaking out
every pore, every opening
like a flood
like the Mississippi, rising up and over
no where to go
first my neighbor, then on to others
uncontrolled pleasure, consuming everything
in its path
never free
I will never swim free
I would sleep
with you
first.
Sheree La Puma Watson
(1 poem added 12.26.10)
editor's note: We are the candy, consumed and consigned to be chalk marks on her tally board. She is counting up her victories, counting down her emptiness to zero; quiet nothingness. One day she will be satisfied... just not today. - 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...
On the road,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
••••••• 1st WEDNESDAY OF 2011 IS UPON US •••••••
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, / and never brought to mind? / Should auld acquaintance be forgot / and days of auld lang syne? You know what we say? F@ck Yeah! Let's leave 2010 behind us where it belongs and ring in the 2011 in swirling mad style!
0n 01.05.11, starting at 8:00-ish, Mad Swirl will continue doing the open mic voodoo that what we do do on and into 2011! Join host Johnny O and co-host MH Clay, along with the musically magical trio Swirve and the usual unusual mad suspects as we 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
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