The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 01.29.11
“Why should poetry have to make sense?” Charlie Chaplin
Digital illustration (above) by Johnny O, 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...
•••••••••••
Fallout Boy
Heels clicked songs on the avenue
in time to the slow swagger
of those take me to the moon hips.
He was such a handsome man.
Like a matador's moving red wool,
funnels replaced black iris's
as finger-taps in his skull
reduced a house to ashes.
She put herself in front of moving trains,
laid cool palms to bursting temples
and at day’s end,
he merely spit out her blood and sighed.
They say his madness was evident.
He left the crying babe alone,
among hangers and jackets
as the monkey perched high on his back.
His life is now seeped in gray,
looks in corners for something
that carries long forgotten memories
of a life he never got to live.
Lynne Hayes
(2 poems added 01.29.11)
editor's note: Woe to those exposed too long to the bombardment, relentless and unseen; those who did not know to struggle against this ever-shrinking half-life. We would not be gone in a wink and immediately forgotten. Thanks and Welcome to Lynn Hayes, our newest Contributing Poet to the Swirl! (She has another new one on her, newly posted, page - push on over.) - mh
•••••••••••
Diogenes has a writing desk
birthed from the drysack of the floor,
spilled from the amniotic gourd of boredom,
somehow surviving to rule over the indiligence
SJ Fowler
(added 01.28.11)
editor's note: Does cynicism come from sloth? Or, would dust and boredom color a worldview, casting everything in a doubtful shadow? Positively! - mh
•••••••••••
The Dead and the Sick are the Same
Matthew's wake was three scars from a mainline IV the doctors punctured in my neck.
He was 21 when he killed himself New Year’s Day. I was 18 when I almost died. I didn't happen slowly. I was no constant pinprick of heroin, but all modern medicine: machines breathing for me and tubes running from my neck, arm, hand, crotch.
I was lucky. I didn't go blind or get crippled. Nothing happened to me except I'm fourteen pounds lighter and still too weak to open heavy doors.
But he can never unwrap that noose from around his neck, never get up off his knees and walk away. There's no taking suicide back. You can't put your shoes on, wait for Daddy to come drive you home.
His was a Catholic wake. He would have hated it. His chin looked like it had fallen apart. Matthew, yours was the first dead body I'd ever seen.
And still, I just think of him on Halloween, dressed in his mom's clothes, asking how to go to the bathroom in a skirt, saying "I gotta go home early, gotta write a paper."
Susie Swanton
(added 01.27.11)
editor's note: Life is a corridor. Death is a door. Some are impatient to see what's on the other side, or just tired of these monotonous tiles in the floor. Remember them and keep walking. - mh
•••••••••••
DIANA (MOON)
Drag your white skull beyond blind seas
That tumble dazed to you mono-eyed magic.
Go tell Neptune when the night is through.
Charm him, too, with your waxing and waning.
But you can’t catch me with those veiled half smiles.
Your borrowed brilliance exposes you.
I know your darker side.
Go charm some other star struck rhapsodist.
Clinton Van Inman
(added 01.26.11)
editor's note: This poet is not stricken by her stark beauty, not duped by her dark side. I, in the meantime, cannot take my eyes away. I know her half-smiles must be for me. - mh
•••••••••••
Your Face is the Shadow
Your face is the shadow
That blends with mine
I would give up all I have
To get rid of it
Your face is the shadow
Your face the tracks
That balance the screaming trains
Uttering icy words: freezing the sinews
Of love. Heartbeats shudder like a dying
Fish, the fresh air killing it passionately
Your face these monstrous trains
Your face this thorny air
Dissecting the faces of brute
Spraying acid on their nerves
Now acidic men walk on the streets
I smell nothing but acidic men.
Your face is made up of stars
Uncountable, distant
Now I slumber like these acidic men
Shadows cast over the sky
Baby-like
Crying for futile attention and vain love.
Arun Budhathoki
(2 poems added 01.25.11)
editor's note: What a harsh face to face; a lover's, our own, the face of god? What a harsh face-to-face! (Another good one from Arun on his page - check it out!) - mh
•••••••••••
The 22 of January, 2011
for Debbie
Another year has turned and almost another month
this year 2011;
Our lives turn to bony ash,
we all must wear a mask.
The sun sets on a humid Sydney day,
I sit here still wondering, searching for what I am not sure;
except that I know what is true endures.
I also know how grief can twist the mind so that it turns in upon itself,
it crumbles and you see only
what you want it to see.
I feel your are still with me,
you are my only Muse;
You died 6 years 7 months ago
yet I know you are still with me,
and guide me
my light in a dark place,
my only Muse,
my heart tells me so.
John Najjar
(1 poem added 01.24.11)
editor's note: Sometimes the best New Year's resolution we can make is to keep moving forward with the same inspiration. Yes, indeed, "what is true endures." Masks off! (Nice to hear from John Najjar and looking forward to what more his Muse brings him in the year ahead.) - mh
•••••••••••
Judicial Homicide
The bailiff laughed, his gut loosened his belt.
The verdict was in; He was cheering for the victim
The defendant, a boy, prepared for the outcome
The jurors proceeded in; they are the deciders of if he committed sin.
The boy’s mother in the back, praying with her Bible in hand;
She was with him, his alibi; the court-appointed claimed, it may not stand.
Nine months they waited, looking up to God with their chins
One account of robbery,
His past offense made him out to be a guilty man
“We find the victim,” the foreman began
“Guilty!” with a strong voice he said.
The mother sank deep into her seat, crying loud for justice.
A shout, “She has a gun!” rang into the courtroom.
The order in the court broke into mayhem.
So the boy ran, hopping the barrier, “I didn’t do it,” he screamed as he scrammed.
They pounce on him, a lion on its prey.
He cried out, “This isn’t my judgment day! Mistaken identity! Please get off of me!
“I can’t go back to hell, my death is incarcerating!”
Of course they did not care; they slammed him to the ground and cut off his air.
The mother held high the gun; one shot turned the courtroom scared.
“You don’t know my son!” she aimed the barrel at the men.
“Nobody’s leaving!” to the roof she shot again.
The floor was filled with terrified bodies.
She sends a bullet to the bailiff’s leg.
The boy rises and leaps to her side.
They open the courtroom doors; the twenty officers became a blow to their eyes.
The mother couldn’t stop, impulse fortifies her stance, “Give us liberty, or give us death!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
…Two died, Judicial Homicide.
Isaac Hines
(added 01.23.11)
editor's note: Wow! What a story! Tragic, scary; reads like a screenplay, a novel or, scariest of all, like a newspaper. - 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...
Nonsensically Sensical,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
Yep, it's that time again. What time you ask? Time to get our "Awww!" on!
0n 02.02.11, 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
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'” Jack Kerouac
Digital illustration (above) by Johnny O, 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...
•••••••••••
Fallout Boy
Heels clicked songs on the avenue
in time to the slow swagger
of those take me to the moon hips.
He was such a handsome man.
Like a matador's moving red wool,
funnels replaced black iris's
as finger-taps in his skull
reduced a house to ashes.
She put herself in front of moving trains,
laid cool palms to bursting temples
and at day’s end,
he merely spit out her blood and sighed.
They say his madness was evident.
He left the crying babe alone,
among hangers and jackets
as the monkey perched high on his back.
His life is now seeped in gray,
looks in corners for something
that carries long forgotten memories
of a life he never got to live.
Lynne Hayes
(2 poems added 01.29.11)
editor's note: Woe to those exposed too long to the bombardment, relentless and unseen; those who did not know to struggle against this ever-shrinking half-life. We would not be gone in a wink and immediately forgotten. Thanks and Welcome to Lynn Hayes, our newest Contributing Poet to the Swirl! (She has another new one on her, newly posted, page - push on over.) - mh
•••••••••••
Diogenes has a writing desk
birthed from the drysack of the floor,
spilled from the amniotic gourd of boredom,
somehow surviving to rule over the indiligence
SJ Fowler
(added 01.28.11)
editor's note: Does cynicism come from sloth? Or, would dust and boredom color a worldview, casting everything in a doubtful shadow? Positively! - mh
•••••••••••
The Dead and the Sick are the Same
Matthew's wake was three scars from a mainline IV the doctors punctured in my neck.
He was 21 when he killed himself New Year’s Day. I was 18 when I almost died. I didn't happen slowly. I was no constant pinprick of heroin, but all modern medicine: machines breathing for me and tubes running from my neck, arm, hand, crotch.
I was lucky. I didn't go blind or get crippled. Nothing happened to me except I'm fourteen pounds lighter and still too weak to open heavy doors.
But he can never unwrap that noose from around his neck, never get up off his knees and walk away. There's no taking suicide back. You can't put your shoes on, wait for Daddy to come drive you home.
His was a Catholic wake. He would have hated it. His chin looked like it had fallen apart. Matthew, yours was the first dead body I'd ever seen.
And still, I just think of him on Halloween, dressed in his mom's clothes, asking how to go to the bathroom in a skirt, saying "I gotta go home early, gotta write a paper."
Susie Swanton
(added 01.27.11)
editor's note: Life is a corridor. Death is a door. Some are impatient to see what's on the other side, or just tired of these monotonous tiles in the floor. Remember them and keep walking. - mh
•••••••••••
DIANA (MOON)
Drag your white skull beyond blind seas
That tumble dazed to you mono-eyed magic.
Go tell Neptune when the night is through.
Charm him, too, with your waxing and waning.
But you can’t catch me with those veiled half smiles.
Your borrowed brilliance exposes you.
I know your darker side.
Go charm some other star struck rhapsodist.
Clinton Van Inman
(added 01.26.11)
editor's note: This poet is not stricken by her stark beauty, not duped by her dark side. I, in the meantime, cannot take my eyes away. I know her half-smiles must be for me. - mh
•••••••••••
Your Face is the Shadow
Your face is the shadow
That blends with mine
I would give up all I have
To get rid of it
Your face is the shadow
Your face the tracks
That balance the screaming trains
Uttering icy words: freezing the sinews
Of love. Heartbeats shudder like a dying
Fish, the fresh air killing it passionately
Your face these monstrous trains
Your face this thorny air
Dissecting the faces of brute
Spraying acid on their nerves
Now acidic men walk on the streets
I smell nothing but acidic men.
Your face is made up of stars
Uncountable, distant
Now I slumber like these acidic men
Shadows cast over the sky
Baby-like
Crying for futile attention and vain love.
Arun Budhathoki
(2 poems added 01.25.11)
editor's note: What a harsh face to face; a lover's, our own, the face of god? What a harsh face-to-face! (Another good one from Arun on his page - check it out!) - mh
•••••••••••
The 22 of January, 2011
for Debbie
Another year has turned and almost another month
this year 2011;
Our lives turn to bony ash,
we all must wear a mask.
The sun sets on a humid Sydney day,
I sit here still wondering, searching for what I am not sure;
except that I know what is true endures.
I also know how grief can twist the mind so that it turns in upon itself,
it crumbles and you see only
what you want it to see.
I feel your are still with me,
you are my only Muse;
You died 6 years 7 months ago
yet I know you are still with me,
and guide me
my light in a dark place,
my only Muse,
my heart tells me so.
John Najjar
(1 poem added 01.24.11)
editor's note: Sometimes the best New Year's resolution we can make is to keep moving forward with the same inspiration. Yes, indeed, "what is true endures." Masks off! (Nice to hear from John Najjar and looking forward to what more his Muse brings him in the year ahead.) - mh
•••••••••••
Judicial Homicide
The bailiff laughed, his gut loosened his belt.
The verdict was in; He was cheering for the victim
The defendant, a boy, prepared for the outcome
The jurors proceeded in; they are the deciders of if he committed sin.
The boy’s mother in the back, praying with her Bible in hand;
She was with him, his alibi; the court-appointed claimed, it may not stand.
Nine months they waited, looking up to God with their chins
One account of robbery,
His past offense made him out to be a guilty man
“We find the victim,” the foreman began
“Guilty!” with a strong voice he said.
The mother sank deep into her seat, crying loud for justice.
A shout, “She has a gun!” rang into the courtroom.
The order in the court broke into mayhem.
So the boy ran, hopping the barrier, “I didn’t do it,” he screamed as he scrammed.
They pounce on him, a lion on its prey.
He cried out, “This isn’t my judgment day! Mistaken identity! Please get off of me!
“I can’t go back to hell, my death is incarcerating!”
Of course they did not care; they slammed him to the ground and cut off his air.
The mother held high the gun; one shot turned the courtroom scared.
“You don’t know my son!” she aimed the barrel at the men.
“Nobody’s leaving!” to the roof she shot again.
The floor was filled with terrified bodies.
She sends a bullet to the bailiff’s leg.
The boy rises and leaps to her side.
They open the courtroom doors; the twenty officers became a blow to their eyes.
The mother couldn’t stop, impulse fortifies her stance, “Give us liberty, or give us death!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
…Two died, Judicial Homicide.
Isaac Hines
(added 01.23.11)
editor's note: Wow! What a story! Tragic, scary; reads like a screenplay, a novel or, scariest of all, like a newspaper. - 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...
Nonsensically Sensical,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
Yep, it's that time again. What time you ask? Time to get our "Awww!" on!
0n 02.02.11, 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
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'” Jack Kerouac
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