The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.26.11
“There's high, and there's high, and to get really high - I mean so high that you can walk on the water, that high - that's where I'm going.” George Harrison
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we started with a double-take on shelter - one view from the safe within, another from the far without; diverted to some playful poet's pedantry, pontification and perfidy; deflected back into a walloping nudge (more like a bone-jarring nab) back into a powerful "then;" were pulled into sober contemplation of our common ends, but with divergent choices; bandied with notions of butterflies and memories erased; finally to embrace the grandest GOODBYE to ever compel our strongest forever, most hearfelt "HELLO!"
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
GOODBYE
Goodbye.
Nanoseconds dance in the micro-universe. Perhaps, they speak to me, whispering secrets of Existence. Yet I can’t hear their murmurs. I can’t see their miraculous dance or poetic metamorphosis. And when they say goodbye, I don’t cry, I don’t respond. Yet in the dark caves of my psyche, I sense the inevitable change, the loss, the death.
Goodbye. How many times must I say this soul-wrenching word?
Nanoseconds whirl around a subatomic universe, merging with other nanoseconds until they vanish within swirling seconds destined to disappear too. All things end.
Goodbye. Within Space-Time, all things living and non-living inevitably say goodbye.
Seconds swirl around my being, enclosing and covering me with Space-Time, shielding me from other realities too frightening to imagine, until they connect and unite in the universe of minutes. Letting go of their fragile identities, they die in order to be reborn inside a vast sea of being and becoming.
Goodbye. I can’t bear this word that rips my soul into a thousand shards of barren wasteland. But it’s the way of human life that always begins and ends. Each goodbye is a sliver of death and dying. Within Space-Time, there’s no escape from the valley of the shadow of death. Inevitably, we die.
And so it goes. Minutes flow into hours and vanish. Hours merge and become days, disappearing in the relentless rush of time. Days slip into weeks and weeks into months like the antediluvian snake that slithers across the Garden of Eden. It glides stealthily and yet, like the falcon, flying furiously across a black sky with its long pointed wings and its short curved beak, it hunts and kills its prey. The dark flow of time seeks you and me and all creatures that exist and live in Space-Time. Ultimately, we are its quarry.
Goodbye. Now, the months merge and vanish within the dark years of Yesterday. Looking back to the beginning of my life seems an endless chore. That’s the way of human life and death. I’m not ready to say goodbye. Yet the end might come tomorrow. Or it might arrive decades from this poignant moment of reflection. I accept the dark way of human life. And still, I protest. I need more time, much more time to be and become and create.
So it goes. I’m a young old man of contradictions. I cherish my paradoxes and caress my will to live. It’s nestled in my mysterious soul and simultaneously whirls around my being. I’m not ready to say goodbye to life. But it’s up to G-d to know when.
Goodbye until you read my next creation. Every poem or story is a new beginning. Every word is a piece of my soul I wish to share with you.
Goodbye.
- Mel Waldman
(1 poem added 02.26.11)
editor's note: Deep rings the resonant "twang" of recognition. May we never say "Goodbye," instead, an eternal "Hello!" Thanks, Dr. Mel! - mh
•••••••••••
Buddhist Cleaning Service
Loan me a couch to lay my sore body on
and a pillow with memory foam,
not to straighten my neck, mind you,
but to store the things I shouldn't forget
each butterfly that circles my house
holds a memory I desperately miss
I'd snare them with nylon nets
if they didn't fucking MELT when caught
the memories seep into the earth
and grow into neon red trees,
horribly disfigured and bent trees
that remind me of wicked witches
and my grandfather's gnarled arthritic hands
before you bring the couch
make room for the Buddhist cleaning service
I plan on erasing the need for memories
in which case I'll sell the butterflies on Craig's List
- Shawn R. Misener
(2 poems added 02.25.11)
editor's note: Reminiscent of the butterfly dreaming it is a man, dreaming he is a butterfly. But, with all memory erased, the nature of this existence is irrelevant. Just let it be. (Read another good one from Shawn, about the ultimate kings of the world, on his poetry page.) - mh
•••••••••••
BEDRIDDEN
‘choke him, choke him, choke him!’ all the Rice Crispies on the bed chant to the single Rice Crispie lodged in the Hoover vacuum cleaner’s mouth
bedsores full of static
a cobbled, novelty garden feature shaped like a sick person
a tenfoot shadow broke in last night
organic veggie coloring book for the bored ill
you will only show your ass when you’re dead
wake me up when death’s pimple crosshairs on the air mattress have turned cloudy
the fountains should be of the purest air
so yes, I want a germ-free Uzi to finish me off
don’t tell me not to eat in bed
- Tyson Bley
(2 poems added 02.24.11)
editor's note: Delirious ramblings, fever-borne sightings of angels and demons to frequent the terminal bedside. Oh, for the clarity of the click and CRACK, the searing throughway, the open door to the next beyond. (Oh, and more raucous ranting from our newest Contributing Poet on his new page - read "CHAT ROULETTE", too. Welcome, Tyson!) - mh
•••••••••••
the memory
she couldn't read what it said
or whom it was for
the memory only contained the sudden
image
from an antique shop
or estate sale
it was forgotten now
where or when
but the unexpected frailty,
the image,
weak knee'd her
stalled staggering
at this moment held
helpless, sightless,
merely astonished at
the wetness of her cheek
falling into gardenias lain
on the bed,
her robe slipping open,
she turned her body
toward the open window.
- Jhon Baker
(2 poems added 02.23.11)
editor's note: Man, you never know when those mnemonic devices will drop you smack in the middle of somethin' powerful from "back when" - so keep your robe closed at all times. (Thanks and Welcome! to Jhon Baker, our newest inductee to our illustrious list of Contributing Poets - go read some more on his page...) - mh
•••••••••••
How to Write a Poem - A Comprehensive Manual
Take a sheet of paper, a pen, a pencil
Or stare into nowhere, aloof and pensive,
Close your eyes or wear a silly smile,
Sit down or walk at random for a while...
Now grab a thought, an idea, a distant notion,
Throw it away with a frustrated motion,
Pull out another inkling, you have a lot,
Settle down on something, an embryo plot.
Put together some words, arrange in a line,
Toss them around until they feel fine,
Hunt for images, powerful, poignant, fresh,
Implant them firmly into the poem's flesh.
Then add your pain, loss, love, hope, fear,
Squeeze your soul to get something here,
Something palpable on this crumpled page -
Dig it from your heart, either joy or rage.
After your poem is sprinkled with blood,
Sparkles with mirth or is stained with mud,
Polish its surface slowly, without haste;
Consider adding irony by taste.
Read the poem aloud and cringe in dismay,
Tear it into pieces and throw away!
After a while gather the shreds again,
Revise once more with all due restraint.
Now show it to somebody you can trust
And do with it whatever you must -
Send to a publisher, hide in a drawer
Or simply go write another poem.
- Irena Pasvinter
(1 poem added 02.22.11)
editor's note: Irena's instructions for us who would concatenate words into this elusive form spur the debate over creativity and its origins. Damn, it's hard to think of words that rhyme with "origins." Thanks, Irena! - mh
•••••••••••
An overlooking exit
Performing rituals
Prospect of this morning fog
Devoid of any taste of life
blurring with stiff cold benumbs
Adjoining bare trees where
Few birds are fighting with cold.
By the force of his age
Beside its note of alarm
Conclusion of an old man
Shivering with Siberian wind
Dragging his morbid steps with stick
Like the brown grass of winter
His cheeks are drenched by the tears of frost.
And due course of his vital spark
Anticipating his imminent owner
Preparing for the comfort of his
Inheritance of final retreat
For the Grim Reaper is
Waiting his claiming hours.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(added 02.21.11)
editor's note: It's a cold room, the caterer is unreliable; outside seems the better choice. But, since no one wires back any confirmation of warmth and satiation, perhaps it's better to keep the exits clear. - mh
•••••••••••
Waiting for the storm to end
Wet and woeful
I will avoid.
Peer out, instead, hypnotized
and rooted to the spot
ten digits pressed against the glass,
ten minutes
the sobbing panes
and breathe simply,
nothing more than a careless whisper
till all has washed away
and fizzled out
the beauty and the trauma
and eyes fight shy of light
once
more.
- A. Swimmer
(1 poem added 02.20.11)
editor's note: It's safe and warm in here, sheltered from the storm. Blurred, the boundary between us and panes of glass. Difficult to tell who is getting wet and who is "shy of light." Nice! (Let's welcome A. Swimmer to our growing list of Contributing Poets) - 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...
Flyin' High,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
“A person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free” ~ Nikos Kazantzakis
We here at Mad Swirl second that motion! We've been feeling kinda rope cutty. Hows'a'bout you?
On 03.02.11, starting at 8:00-ish, Mad Swirl will continue doing the open mic voodoo that what we do do! 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 mystically mad poets, musicians, dancers, actors, singers, performers & any other miscellaneous mad ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth area to come & strut your 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
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we started with a double-take on shelter - one view from the safe within, another from the far without; diverted to some playful poet's pedantry, pontification and perfidy; deflected back into a walloping nudge (more like a bone-jarring nab) back into a powerful "then;" were pulled into sober contemplation of our common ends, but with divergent choices; bandied with notions of butterflies and memories erased; finally to embrace the grandest GOODBYE to ever compel our strongest forever, most hearfelt "HELLO!"
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
GOODBYE
Goodbye.
Nanoseconds dance in the micro-universe. Perhaps, they speak to me, whispering secrets of Existence. Yet I can’t hear their murmurs. I can’t see their miraculous dance or poetic metamorphosis. And when they say goodbye, I don’t cry, I don’t respond. Yet in the dark caves of my psyche, I sense the inevitable change, the loss, the death.
Goodbye. How many times must I say this soul-wrenching word?
Nanoseconds whirl around a subatomic universe, merging with other nanoseconds until they vanish within swirling seconds destined to disappear too. All things end.
Goodbye. Within Space-Time, all things living and non-living inevitably say goodbye.
Seconds swirl around my being, enclosing and covering me with Space-Time, shielding me from other realities too frightening to imagine, until they connect and unite in the universe of minutes. Letting go of their fragile identities, they die in order to be reborn inside a vast sea of being and becoming.
Goodbye. I can’t bear this word that rips my soul into a thousand shards of barren wasteland. But it’s the way of human life that always begins and ends. Each goodbye is a sliver of death and dying. Within Space-Time, there’s no escape from the valley of the shadow of death. Inevitably, we die.
And so it goes. Minutes flow into hours and vanish. Hours merge and become days, disappearing in the relentless rush of time. Days slip into weeks and weeks into months like the antediluvian snake that slithers across the Garden of Eden. It glides stealthily and yet, like the falcon, flying furiously across a black sky with its long pointed wings and its short curved beak, it hunts and kills its prey. The dark flow of time seeks you and me and all creatures that exist and live in Space-Time. Ultimately, we are its quarry.
Goodbye. Now, the months merge and vanish within the dark years of Yesterday. Looking back to the beginning of my life seems an endless chore. That’s the way of human life and death. I’m not ready to say goodbye. Yet the end might come tomorrow. Or it might arrive decades from this poignant moment of reflection. I accept the dark way of human life. And still, I protest. I need more time, much more time to be and become and create.
So it goes. I’m a young old man of contradictions. I cherish my paradoxes and caress my will to live. It’s nestled in my mysterious soul and simultaneously whirls around my being. I’m not ready to say goodbye to life. But it’s up to G-d to know when.
Goodbye until you read my next creation. Every poem or story is a new beginning. Every word is a piece of my soul I wish to share with you.
Goodbye.
- Mel Waldman
(1 poem added 02.26.11)
editor's note: Deep rings the resonant "twang" of recognition. May we never say "Goodbye," instead, an eternal "Hello!" Thanks, Dr. Mel! - mh
•••••••••••
Buddhist Cleaning Service
Loan me a couch to lay my sore body on
and a pillow with memory foam,
not to straighten my neck, mind you,
but to store the things I shouldn't forget
each butterfly that circles my house
holds a memory I desperately miss
I'd snare them with nylon nets
if they didn't fucking MELT when caught
the memories seep into the earth
and grow into neon red trees,
horribly disfigured and bent trees
that remind me of wicked witches
and my grandfather's gnarled arthritic hands
before you bring the couch
make room for the Buddhist cleaning service
I plan on erasing the need for memories
in which case I'll sell the butterflies on Craig's List
- Shawn R. Misener
(2 poems added 02.25.11)
editor's note: Reminiscent of the butterfly dreaming it is a man, dreaming he is a butterfly. But, with all memory erased, the nature of this existence is irrelevant. Just let it be. (Read another good one from Shawn, about the ultimate kings of the world, on his poetry page.) - mh
•••••••••••
BEDRIDDEN
‘choke him, choke him, choke him!’ all the Rice Crispies on the bed chant to the single Rice Crispie lodged in the Hoover vacuum cleaner’s mouth
bedsores full of static
a cobbled, novelty garden feature shaped like a sick person
a tenfoot shadow broke in last night
organic veggie coloring book for the bored ill
you will only show your ass when you’re dead
wake me up when death’s pimple crosshairs on the air mattress have turned cloudy
the fountains should be of the purest air
so yes, I want a germ-free Uzi to finish me off
don’t tell me not to eat in bed
- Tyson Bley
(2 poems added 02.24.11)
editor's note: Delirious ramblings, fever-borne sightings of angels and demons to frequent the terminal bedside. Oh, for the clarity of the click and CRACK, the searing throughway, the open door to the next beyond. (Oh, and more raucous ranting from our newest Contributing Poet on his new page - read "CHAT ROULETTE", too. Welcome, Tyson!) - mh
•••••••••••
the memory
she couldn't read what it said
or whom it was for
the memory only contained the sudden
image
from an antique shop
or estate sale
it was forgotten now
where or when
but the unexpected frailty,
the image,
weak knee'd her
stalled staggering
at this moment held
helpless, sightless,
merely astonished at
the wetness of her cheek
falling into gardenias lain
on the bed,
her robe slipping open,
she turned her body
toward the open window.
- Jhon Baker
(2 poems added 02.23.11)
editor's note: Man, you never know when those mnemonic devices will drop you smack in the middle of somethin' powerful from "back when" - so keep your robe closed at all times. (Thanks and Welcome! to Jhon Baker, our newest inductee to our illustrious list of Contributing Poets - go read some more on his page...) - mh
•••••••••••
How to Write a Poem - A Comprehensive Manual
Take a sheet of paper, a pen, a pencil
Or stare into nowhere, aloof and pensive,
Close your eyes or wear a silly smile,
Sit down or walk at random for a while...
Now grab a thought, an idea, a distant notion,
Throw it away with a frustrated motion,
Pull out another inkling, you have a lot,
Settle down on something, an embryo plot.
Put together some words, arrange in a line,
Toss them around until they feel fine,
Hunt for images, powerful, poignant, fresh,
Implant them firmly into the poem's flesh.
Then add your pain, loss, love, hope, fear,
Squeeze your soul to get something here,
Something palpable on this crumpled page -
Dig it from your heart, either joy or rage.
After your poem is sprinkled with blood,
Sparkles with mirth or is stained with mud,
Polish its surface slowly, without haste;
Consider adding irony by taste.
Read the poem aloud and cringe in dismay,
Tear it into pieces and throw away!
After a while gather the shreds again,
Revise once more with all due restraint.
Now show it to somebody you can trust
And do with it whatever you must -
Send to a publisher, hide in a drawer
Or simply go write another poem.
- Irena Pasvinter
(1 poem added 02.22.11)
editor's note: Irena's instructions for us who would concatenate words into this elusive form spur the debate over creativity and its origins. Damn, it's hard to think of words that rhyme with "origins." Thanks, Irena! - mh
•••••••••••
An overlooking exit
Performing rituals
Prospect of this morning fog
Devoid of any taste of life
blurring with stiff cold benumbs
Adjoining bare trees where
Few birds are fighting with cold.
By the force of his age
Beside its note of alarm
Conclusion of an old man
Shivering with Siberian wind
Dragging his morbid steps with stick
Like the brown grass of winter
His cheeks are drenched by the tears of frost.
And due course of his vital spark
Anticipating his imminent owner
Preparing for the comfort of his
Inheritance of final retreat
For the Grim Reaper is
Waiting his claiming hours.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(added 02.21.11)
editor's note: It's a cold room, the caterer is unreliable; outside seems the better choice. But, since no one wires back any confirmation of warmth and satiation, perhaps it's better to keep the exits clear. - mh
•••••••••••
Waiting for the storm to end
Wet and woeful
I will avoid.
Peer out, instead, hypnotized
and rooted to the spot
ten digits pressed against the glass,
ten minutes
the sobbing panes
and breathe simply,
nothing more than a careless whisper
till all has washed away
and fizzled out
the beauty and the trauma
and eyes fight shy of light
once
more.
- A. Swimmer
(1 poem added 02.20.11)
editor's note: It's safe and warm in here, sheltered from the storm. Blurred, the boundary between us and panes of glass. Difficult to tell who is getting wet and who is "shy of light." Nice! (Let's welcome A. Swimmer to our growing list of Contributing Poets) - 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...
Flyin' High,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
“A person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free” ~ Nikos Kazantzakis
We here at Mad Swirl second that motion! We've been feeling kinda rope cutty. Hows'a'bout you?
On 03.02.11, starting at 8:00-ish, Mad Swirl will continue doing the open mic voodoo that what we do do! 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 mystically mad poets, musicians, dancers, actors, singers, performers & any other miscellaneous mad ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth area to come & strut your 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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