The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 01.15.11
“Almost always, the creative dedicated minority has made the world better.” Martin Luther King, Jr.
Dust (above) by our featured artists and longtime contributors to the mad gallery, K.R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch, two 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...
•••••••••••
In the Shower
The steam reveals the finger
and handprints of our love
on the vanity mirror.
The water rolls down your tanned flesh
like it would if a waterlogged schooner was
abandoned at sea.
The heat of the water
curls the chains of your hair,
making them black as they whip my cheeks
in your playful way of rinsing shampoo.
I touch you as bubbles cover your
inner thighs,
mascara runs down the sides of the shoulder
You stare over as
I reach out to catch it.
Trying to hold it in my finger tips like it was the
last earthly thing to hold close
enough to your form to bravely say it has felt you.
I am just a man,
naked except for tattooed lines
that etch a story of twenty two short years.
Your marks are from God;
the eight moles on your chin and neck,
bruises from a long night
of making love and smoking out of your bedroom window,
and a cut on your finger from opening the last
Coke and sharing it with me at dinner.
As you shut off the drain we both shiver,
water gone,
electricity humming in our bones
as we sing into each other’s larynxes,
knowing the perfect words
to the songs we had written for each other,
long before we had known ourselves.
Zach Fishel
(1 poem added 01.15.11)
editor's note: Ahhhhh! Cleanliness is, indeed, next to godliness. (More from Zachary, our newest Contributing Poet, on his new poetry page - check'em out. Welcome, Zach!) - mh
•••••••••••
Your own kind of thing
Squinting at the sun, eyes-screwed-tight &
Willing a golden rope ladder to descend
You were safe in heaven-dead floating and feathered in flowers
With music from God’s own jukebox
But sick from the heat and too much intensity
Troubled by so much velocity
You knew your luck was outside
Sat waiting for an angelic type
You saw her speeding right past ya
In lipgloss and a 911 Carrera
Later she sent you a bolt of electricity
By text it shot through the night
The warmth spread over you slowly
And she told you to stop over-reaching
For what you couldn’t have, instead
Peacefully contemplate
Your own kind of thing
Charles Pitter
(added 01.14.11)
editor's note: Words of wisdom from an outcast angel. I knew it was so, the really smart ones all drive Carreras. Now, for my own kind of thing - Ohhhhhmmmm! - mh
•••••••••••
For Ms Sexton and Her Pulitzer
Have we not been her kind, all these years later?
All these Scorpio women at their typewriters, unknowingly
giving the forecast for those who wrap lines of
poetry about their necks, a string of pearls worth
a fortune only to the wearer. Pale girls in dormitories, wearing costumes
behind acoustic guitars, forgetting, perhaps that Joan lost Bob and the boys
in rock and roll would never take them seriously even if they’d lived
together for the next hundred years.
But those who bring the table and chair out, to compose under a moon,
so full and weighty gain eyes, sharp as owls and hunt for prey
until fingers and mind bend and bend again. These girls know, inspiration
is not their angel, not grace measured out in thoughtful syllables but a
scorpion to meet in the night. A fixation as oral as the ancient epics.
Have we taken to the caves in the same way?
Or do we shirk the oven and the knife?
Hannah Allen-White
(added 01.13.11)
editor's note: The muse is a stinging scorpion we seek with abandon. Better the poison and convulsions than silence and cracking teeth on this dry bone. Nice! - mh
•••••••••••
For Mary Conway
Just saw a big white Buick LeSabre
go by in the alley.
It had a big decal of a cupcake
on the back passenger window.
Looks like the car I should be driving.
It’s a can of beans day.
Last nite Mary and I spat in all the bushes
on the way home,
hoping to hit a leprechaun in the eyes
for being a rich bitch.
Alex L. Swartzentruber
(1 poem added 01.12.11)
editor's note: Yeah! Puttin' on the dog, livin' high on the hog - that leprechaun makes his money at the local bar, where it's $10 a toss on Friday nights. At least somebody's gettin' rich! (See more from Mr. S - who just joined our Contributing Poets - on his new page.) - mh
•••••••••••
WHAT SHE’S MADE OF THEY MADE HER OF
Anatomical wind chimes is what male thought
made of her by entering at just the right speed.
A marionette with a degree in knots, her PTSD
gestures constituted the money shot. Check out
these shameful reunifications: anti-gravity syndrome
gets it from brothel acupuncture’s gilded pogos.
Who patented the painkiller output? She was not
really fooled by the crap in the mail, by
yuletide berserkers and 5-minute jerkers,
sitting on a cocoa throne with points of view
like a flurrying leak. On the bright side of the caribou,
there was a real woman, although lesbian jazz –
clenching the horns between its jaws – still
cheers me up. I’m a tidal load of strangers loaded
with strangers – orgasm flakes the zeppelin would
easily trade for the laser cab mistletoe.
Tyson Bley
(added 01.11.11)
editor's note: My mind is a pachinko ball, cascading down these wildly webbed words to rest in an impatient queue, awaiting the push of the plunger to propel me upward and through this crazy construct again, careening off the same words in different directions, until, exhausted and spent, I begin to comprehend what she's made of. - mh
•••••••••••
soup
I don’t cook soup often
and it bothers me to have to do it
I don’t know why
maybe it’s that I don’t eat soups
unless they are served to me and made of
yesterday's grease, cream and uneaten chicken
or pork
but my son likes it for lunch and it’s
good for him
so his mother heats it, adding the can of water
and stirring
he eats hot food
I clean the dishes in hot water
my wife checks her e-mail
everybody’s happy
Jhon Baker
(added 01.10.11)
editor's note: A day in the soup. With the right ingredients, everyone is happy. There's the trick; it's about those ingredients. Thanks, Jhon! - mh
•••••••••••
Freedom FOR Security
Either, by nature, you're plagued with paranoia
Or you've bought pervasive propaganda.
I do understand:
It was so cheap, and in your colour.
It wasn't labeled "Propaganda"
Sold as "News," common knowledge,
accommodation to the norm.
And it fits your internal dialog so well
"Danger is everywhere these days of disorder,
scary change."
Just like all the days
when Freedom seems such a flimsy wage,
a cheap exchange
for sham Security.
Laurie Corzett
(1 poem added 01.09.11)
editor's note: But, the bad people are taking over! The bad people are perverting our children!! The bad people are going to inflict us with discriminate subjection!!! WE KNOW IT'S HAPPENING, they told us so. They appear on the screen and tell us these things because they love us - they love God - God loves us - God put them here to help us. GOD DAMMIT, that's the truth (vote for truth, vote now, be safe). - 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...
Dedicated,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Dust (above) by our featured artists and longtime contributors to the mad gallery, K.R. Copeland and Jeff Crouch, two 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...
•••••••••••
In the Shower
The steam reveals the finger
and handprints of our love
on the vanity mirror.
The water rolls down your tanned flesh
like it would if a waterlogged schooner was
abandoned at sea.
The heat of the water
curls the chains of your hair,
making them black as they whip my cheeks
in your playful way of rinsing shampoo.
I touch you as bubbles cover your
inner thighs,
mascara runs down the sides of the shoulder
You stare over as
I reach out to catch it.
Trying to hold it in my finger tips like it was the
last earthly thing to hold close
enough to your form to bravely say it has felt you.
I am just a man,
naked except for tattooed lines
that etch a story of twenty two short years.
Your marks are from God;
the eight moles on your chin and neck,
bruises from a long night
of making love and smoking out of your bedroom window,
and a cut on your finger from opening the last
Coke and sharing it with me at dinner.
As you shut off the drain we both shiver,
water gone,
electricity humming in our bones
as we sing into each other’s larynxes,
knowing the perfect words
to the songs we had written for each other,
long before we had known ourselves.
Zach Fishel
(1 poem added 01.15.11)
editor's note: Ahhhhh! Cleanliness is, indeed, next to godliness. (More from Zachary, our newest Contributing Poet, on his new poetry page - check'em out. Welcome, Zach!) - mh
•••••••••••
Your own kind of thing
Squinting at the sun, eyes-screwed-tight &
Willing a golden rope ladder to descend
You were safe in heaven-dead floating and feathered in flowers
With music from God’s own jukebox
But sick from the heat and too much intensity
Troubled by so much velocity
You knew your luck was outside
Sat waiting for an angelic type
You saw her speeding right past ya
In lipgloss and a 911 Carrera
Later she sent you a bolt of electricity
By text it shot through the night
The warmth spread over you slowly
And she told you to stop over-reaching
For what you couldn’t have, instead
Peacefully contemplate
Your own kind of thing
Charles Pitter
(added 01.14.11)
editor's note: Words of wisdom from an outcast angel. I knew it was so, the really smart ones all drive Carreras. Now, for my own kind of thing - Ohhhhhmmmm! - mh
•••••••••••
For Ms Sexton and Her Pulitzer
Have we not been her kind, all these years later?
All these Scorpio women at their typewriters, unknowingly
giving the forecast for those who wrap lines of
poetry about their necks, a string of pearls worth
a fortune only to the wearer. Pale girls in dormitories, wearing costumes
behind acoustic guitars, forgetting, perhaps that Joan lost Bob and the boys
in rock and roll would never take them seriously even if they’d lived
together for the next hundred years.
But those who bring the table and chair out, to compose under a moon,
so full and weighty gain eyes, sharp as owls and hunt for prey
until fingers and mind bend and bend again. These girls know, inspiration
is not their angel, not grace measured out in thoughtful syllables but a
scorpion to meet in the night. A fixation as oral as the ancient epics.
Have we taken to the caves in the same way?
Or do we shirk the oven and the knife?
Hannah Allen-White
(added 01.13.11)
editor's note: The muse is a stinging scorpion we seek with abandon. Better the poison and convulsions than silence and cracking teeth on this dry bone. Nice! - mh
•••••••••••
For Mary Conway
Just saw a big white Buick LeSabre
go by in the alley.
It had a big decal of a cupcake
on the back passenger window.
Looks like the car I should be driving.
It’s a can of beans day.
Last nite Mary and I spat in all the bushes
on the way home,
hoping to hit a leprechaun in the eyes
for being a rich bitch.
Alex L. Swartzentruber
(1 poem added 01.12.11)
editor's note: Yeah! Puttin' on the dog, livin' high on the hog - that leprechaun makes his money at the local bar, where it's $10 a toss on Friday nights. At least somebody's gettin' rich! (See more from Mr. S - who just joined our Contributing Poets - on his new page.) - mh
•••••••••••
WHAT SHE’S MADE OF THEY MADE HER OF
Anatomical wind chimes is what male thought
made of her by entering at just the right speed.
A marionette with a degree in knots, her PTSD
gestures constituted the money shot. Check out
these shameful reunifications: anti-gravity syndrome
gets it from brothel acupuncture’s gilded pogos.
Who patented the painkiller output? She was not
really fooled by the crap in the mail, by
yuletide berserkers and 5-minute jerkers,
sitting on a cocoa throne with points of view
like a flurrying leak. On the bright side of the caribou,
there was a real woman, although lesbian jazz –
clenching the horns between its jaws – still
cheers me up. I’m a tidal load of strangers loaded
with strangers – orgasm flakes the zeppelin would
easily trade for the laser cab mistletoe.
Tyson Bley
(added 01.11.11)
editor's note: My mind is a pachinko ball, cascading down these wildly webbed words to rest in an impatient queue, awaiting the push of the plunger to propel me upward and through this crazy construct again, careening off the same words in different directions, until, exhausted and spent, I begin to comprehend what she's made of. - mh
•••••••••••
soup
I don’t cook soup often
and it bothers me to have to do it
I don’t know why
maybe it’s that I don’t eat soups
unless they are served to me and made of
yesterday's grease, cream and uneaten chicken
or pork
but my son likes it for lunch and it’s
good for him
so his mother heats it, adding the can of water
and stirring
he eats hot food
I clean the dishes in hot water
my wife checks her e-mail
everybody’s happy
Jhon Baker
(added 01.10.11)
editor's note: A day in the soup. With the right ingredients, everyone is happy. There's the trick; it's about those ingredients. Thanks, Jhon! - mh
•••••••••••
Freedom FOR Security
Either, by nature, you're plagued with paranoia
Or you've bought pervasive propaganda.
I do understand:
It was so cheap, and in your colour.
It wasn't labeled "Propaganda"
Sold as "News," common knowledge,
accommodation to the norm.
And it fits your internal dialog so well
"Danger is everywhere these days of disorder,
scary change."
Just like all the days
when Freedom seems such a flimsy wage,
a cheap exchange
for sham Security.
Laurie Corzett
(1 poem added 01.09.11)
editor's note: But, the bad people are taking over! The bad people are perverting our children!! The bad people are going to inflict us with discriminate subjection!!! WE KNOW IT'S HAPPENING, they told us so. They appear on the screen and tell us these things because they love us - they love God - God loves us - God put them here to help us. GOD DAMMIT, that's the truth (vote for truth, vote now, be safe). - 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...
Dedicated,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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