The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 01.22.11
“It doesn't make much difference how the paint is put on as long as something has been said.” Jackson Pollock
Turmoil (above) by prolific painter and longtime contributor to the mad gallery, 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...
•••••••••••
Compulsion
I have no idea why,
but each night I get drunk
I feel the need to go out
and roam the streets.
This is something I have done
for years,
only now I carry less weapons
and more quarters.
I dial local calls at random
on the payphone a few blocks away
and recite the poems I have just written
to the stranger on the other end.
I usually only get a few words in
before dial tone loneliness
returns
and I begin dialling at random
again.
When I am out of quarters
I walk in a single direction
until I tire of it
and then begin heading in another.
One night I traversed half the city
and would have taken the morning bus back home
but I was out of quarters.
I have no idea why I do
what I do;
only that I must.
I feel compelled
to roam the streets each night.
In much the same way
man eating tigers
alter their diet
without warning
and expressions never leave
the face.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 01.22.11)
editor's note: If I had some quarters, I'd call my therapist and ask him why I do it, if I could find a pay phone that takes quarters anymore. In the meantime, I'll just keep doin' it. I'm following Ryan's example! - mh
•••••••••••
Exit Strategies
The cat will not pretend
for long.
Nor will the dog
though truth he tells
sounds nothing like the cat’ s.
Your smile tight
you say we’ ll be okay
and the cat pretends to stretch
against my leg
talons curved to pierce
just enough
and I know it means:
I want out.
The dog barks
at the door
and whines
then barks again.
Randall Johnson
(added 01.21.11)
editor's note: Keep all passage-ways free of obstruction with the red "Exit" sign perpetually lit. Or, let out the dog and the cat, then close the door and talk about what it takes to "be okay." - mh
•••••••••••
With Zeroes After It
And for two days my problems do not even happen to me.
They go soaring high above my head then jump out of
a plane before parachuting into a jar of mayo I use to
make potato salad. Next, they skate a frozen lake while
smoking cigarettes in a warm winter jacket, glancing
backwards once or twice through the rearview mirror.
Two blissful days pass like a cool underground aquifer all
the way to Walla Walla for a brand new pair of shoes.
Then this morning, everything changes to psychotherapy
with size indicated in the white briefs. Split lipped. Bruised
eye. MacArthur Park without the secret code and completely
unwilling to speak a foreign language.
Am I frightening you?
Well, if you think this story is scary, just wait until I show
you my version of Mt. Rushmore, one-eighth its normal size
and made from silly putty. It can live with just one lung and
claims to be God-fearing!
Maurice Oliver
(1 poem added 01.20.11)
editor's note: One lung is bad enough, but fear, too? That's a hard breath to take. (A welcome back to this Contributing Poet. Go read more of Maurice's work on his page - get [re]acquainted.) - mh
•••••••••••
An Affair Called Evolution
"What a book a devil's chaplain might write on the clumsy, wasteful, blundering, low, and horribly cruel work of nature!” - Charles Darwin
Chase after your voids, crave;
distance, space, loss.
Amble like an Australopithecus,
eat, placate, steal
the fire gods; rock, paper scissors.
Or lay down, low down river
Habilis of the bush,
your biting season of cattle
or woollies or wobbles or terrors
ends with Erectus.
Stand up man! Grab your knives,
spears, clubs, guns?
Throw it all to center.
If damaged goods endear us.
teach us that our future, true to our ancestor
withstands review,
then revision never matters.
D H Sutherland
(added 01.19.11)
editor's note: Ain't it the truth? Say what we will about our long and checkered past, it is the future that needs revision. How do we want it to be? Huh? - mh
•••••••••••
YACHTS IN THE HARBOR
They slip about so gracefully
but I imagine them in heavier seas,
their hulls battered,
sails tortured,
wealthy owners scurrying about
like ants in a stomped-on hill.
They flaunt their masts at me
like they own the weather,
the stillness of this protected cove
but I’m already grooming them
for a hideous sinking,
a pitiless green water devouring.
A pretty woman in a red bikini
waves to me
and I wave back from the shore.
She smiles, a thankful smile,
like she already knows
she’ll be the only survivor.
John Grey
(1 poem added 01.18.11)
editor's note: He's his own little Jesus, having selected his beloved to catch up in his rapture of love, while the rest of the world goes to hell. It's only right! All that opulence is an eyesore, an affront to natural beauty. - mh
•••••••••••
Reflections Made in Water
She broke the mirror.
With a bone
she found
in the heart of a man
who wore death
like a top hat and tails
for dinner.
But still she failed.
To create a seam
dark enough
to match
her shape
to the depths of night.
A.J. Huffman
(added 01.17.11)
editor's note: After awhile, we know what we expect to match in the glass. If no match, then top hat or no, the glass is flawed. What's seven years in forever, anyway? - mh
•••••••••••
There Are Gods Of...
There are gods of fingernail clippings, cat litter leftovers
gods of broken can openers, of hand flipped blow dried hair
gods of a killer’s grin as the gas chamber door shuts, gods of stern faces,
of badges behind two-way glass, of loving eyes that lie, phantom static
between phone receivers there are gods of Sparklets delivery trucks,
of the local butcher with subpar meat, gods of e-coli, of the Hollywood sign
one per letter — there are gods of nose jobs and the scalpel
of drug money blood specked beneath black lights
gods of poor health care systems, propagated global business,
of coke bottle bodies, soup cooler lips, gods of the phrase
“Wanna come up for coffee?” So there are gods of night caps and lingerie,
gods of moans that shudder the walls — there are even gods of the wall shudders
speaking to us through the minutiae, the holes in our skin,
through the machine gun click of old television knobs,
from the muscled mouth of ghetto youth who talk to you like Rod Sterling:
directly, monotonely. There are gods of caution-hot coffee, burned tongues —
There is not a Burger King in Iran which has an actual king, or deity
yet there are gods of dubious prayers, of nuclear energy programs,
gods of other gods who have withered, lost their teeth
gods who have fallen down stone steps cracked every bone
gods of flood levies, airplane engine noise, black boxes…
but there aren’t any gods for secrets.
No gods for the hopeful soul.
Michael J. Martin
(added 01.16.11)
editor's note: Let's form the First Church of the Hopeful Soul and invite Mr. Martin to be our itinerate preacher - don't need a god for some down-home holy-rollin'! In the meantime, if you see any of his aforementioned gods on the street, tell'em I said, "Hi!" - 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...
Sayin' Somethin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Turmoil (above) by prolific painter and longtime contributor to the mad gallery, 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...
•••••••••••
Compulsion
I have no idea why,
but each night I get drunk
I feel the need to go out
and roam the streets.
This is something I have done
for years,
only now I carry less weapons
and more quarters.
I dial local calls at random
on the payphone a few blocks away
and recite the poems I have just written
to the stranger on the other end.
I usually only get a few words in
before dial tone loneliness
returns
and I begin dialling at random
again.
When I am out of quarters
I walk in a single direction
until I tire of it
and then begin heading in another.
One night I traversed half the city
and would have taken the morning bus back home
but I was out of quarters.
I have no idea why I do
what I do;
only that I must.
I feel compelled
to roam the streets each night.
In much the same way
man eating tigers
alter their diet
without warning
and expressions never leave
the face.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 01.22.11)
editor's note: If I had some quarters, I'd call my therapist and ask him why I do it, if I could find a pay phone that takes quarters anymore. In the meantime, I'll just keep doin' it. I'm following Ryan's example! - mh
•••••••••••
Exit Strategies
The cat will not pretend
for long.
Nor will the dog
though truth he tells
sounds nothing like the cat’ s.
Your smile tight
you say we’ ll be okay
and the cat pretends to stretch
against my leg
talons curved to pierce
just enough
and I know it means:
I want out.
The dog barks
at the door
and whines
then barks again.
Randall Johnson
(added 01.21.11)
editor's note: Keep all passage-ways free of obstruction with the red "Exit" sign perpetually lit. Or, let out the dog and the cat, then close the door and talk about what it takes to "be okay." - mh
•••••••••••
With Zeroes After It
And for two days my problems do not even happen to me.
They go soaring high above my head then jump out of
a plane before parachuting into a jar of mayo I use to
make potato salad. Next, they skate a frozen lake while
smoking cigarettes in a warm winter jacket, glancing
backwards once or twice through the rearview mirror.
Two blissful days pass like a cool underground aquifer all
the way to Walla Walla for a brand new pair of shoes.
Then this morning, everything changes to psychotherapy
with size indicated in the white briefs. Split lipped. Bruised
eye. MacArthur Park without the secret code and completely
unwilling to speak a foreign language.
Am I frightening you?
Well, if you think this story is scary, just wait until I show
you my version of Mt. Rushmore, one-eighth its normal size
and made from silly putty. It can live with just one lung and
claims to be God-fearing!
Maurice Oliver
(1 poem added 01.20.11)
editor's note: One lung is bad enough, but fear, too? That's a hard breath to take. (A welcome back to this Contributing Poet. Go read more of Maurice's work on his page - get [re]acquainted.) - mh
•••••••••••
An Affair Called Evolution
"What a book a devil's chaplain might write on the clumsy, wasteful, blundering, low, and horribly cruel work of nature!” - Charles Darwin
Chase after your voids, crave;
distance, space, loss.
Amble like an Australopithecus,
eat, placate, steal
the fire gods; rock, paper scissors.
Or lay down, low down river
Habilis of the bush,
your biting season of cattle
or woollies or wobbles or terrors
ends with Erectus.
Stand up man! Grab your knives,
spears, clubs, guns?
Throw it all to center.
If damaged goods endear us.
teach us that our future, true to our ancestor
withstands review,
then revision never matters.
D H Sutherland
(added 01.19.11)
editor's note: Ain't it the truth? Say what we will about our long and checkered past, it is the future that needs revision. How do we want it to be? Huh? - mh
•••••••••••
YACHTS IN THE HARBOR
They slip about so gracefully
but I imagine them in heavier seas,
their hulls battered,
sails tortured,
wealthy owners scurrying about
like ants in a stomped-on hill.
They flaunt their masts at me
like they own the weather,
the stillness of this protected cove
but I’m already grooming them
for a hideous sinking,
a pitiless green water devouring.
A pretty woman in a red bikini
waves to me
and I wave back from the shore.
She smiles, a thankful smile,
like she already knows
she’ll be the only survivor.
John Grey
(1 poem added 01.18.11)
editor's note: He's his own little Jesus, having selected his beloved to catch up in his rapture of love, while the rest of the world goes to hell. It's only right! All that opulence is an eyesore, an affront to natural beauty. - mh
•••••••••••
Reflections Made in Water
She broke the mirror.
With a bone
she found
in the heart of a man
who wore death
like a top hat and tails
for dinner.
But still she failed.
To create a seam
dark enough
to match
her shape
to the depths of night.
A.J. Huffman
(added 01.17.11)
editor's note: After awhile, we know what we expect to match in the glass. If no match, then top hat or no, the glass is flawed. What's seven years in forever, anyway? - mh
•••••••••••
There Are Gods Of...
There are gods of fingernail clippings, cat litter leftovers
gods of broken can openers, of hand flipped blow dried hair
gods of a killer’s grin as the gas chamber door shuts, gods of stern faces,
of badges behind two-way glass, of loving eyes that lie, phantom static
between phone receivers there are gods of Sparklets delivery trucks,
of the local butcher with subpar meat, gods of e-coli, of the Hollywood sign
one per letter — there are gods of nose jobs and the scalpel
of drug money blood specked beneath black lights
gods of poor health care systems, propagated global business,
of coke bottle bodies, soup cooler lips, gods of the phrase
“Wanna come up for coffee?” So there are gods of night caps and lingerie,
gods of moans that shudder the walls — there are even gods of the wall shudders
speaking to us through the minutiae, the holes in our skin,
through the machine gun click of old television knobs,
from the muscled mouth of ghetto youth who talk to you like Rod Sterling:
directly, monotonely. There are gods of caution-hot coffee, burned tongues —
There is not a Burger King in Iran which has an actual king, or deity
yet there are gods of dubious prayers, of nuclear energy programs,
gods of other gods who have withered, lost their teeth
gods who have fallen down stone steps cracked every bone
gods of flood levies, airplane engine noise, black boxes…
but there aren’t any gods for secrets.
No gods for the hopeful soul.
Michael J. Martin
(added 01.16.11)
editor's note: Let's form the First Church of the Hopeful Soul and invite Mr. Martin to be our itinerate preacher - don't need a god for some down-home holy-rollin'! In the meantime, if you see any of his aforementioned gods on the street, tell'em I said, "Hi!" - 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...
Sayin' Somethin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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