The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03.05.11
“Some people never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must live” Charles Bukowski
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we considered a bad habit from a cosmic perspective, eavesdropped on a father's exposé to his daughter on love, pondered wealth in a different form, instigated a great groove with the right music, incited our base appetites (the best appetites are base) for the things we crave, indulged in a bit of self help for the articulately-challenged, then settled into a deep ponderance, permeated by darkness.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Departure
I hang at the edge of my brain
and I sit by the window –
it is raining.
Black clouds, stormy wind and
flashes behind the hills.
Right there on the other side of
the ridge,
the houses are silent,
but the windows are illuminated.
Inside – happy children laugh,
fathers drink wine and listen to
the radio
as the mothers fix some hot plates.
I try not to think about happiness,
kids and warmness.
I try to shut off my soul and embrace
the arriving brightness.
I lean forward
and the darkness leans with me.
- Peycho Kanev
(2 poems added 03.05.11)
editor's note: Hold back the normal life we see happening around us. Write some words to trap that in time. Then lean forward. (Great to hear from Peycho again!! Another good one on his page - check it out) - mh
•••••••••••
Self-Help Poetry
This is self-help poetry
in braille, I punch in each line
fiercely, so you can read it.
Self-help poetry for minor deities,
the slow train is full of them whenever buses are
on strike, minor deities with rushed lipgloss dabs
and eyeliner curving outwards,
they pray it never rains again,
since water makes their hair feel marshy
in the hands of their casual lovers.
This is self-help poetry in sign language
metaphors in fluid gestures,
poets reciting like street performers in schoolyards,
hospitals and rest stops on motorways,
self-help poetry in bullets and flowers,
in haikus carved on kayak paddles,
rowing against the current.
Poetry intended for salmons,
in the wet tongues of the fish.
Etched on pebbles, thrown in creeks
so you can read it
- Panos Panagiotopoulos
(added 03.04.11)
editor's note: In our Do-It-Yourself world, poetry makes great tools for building whatever we want to build. Go ahead, give it a try - help yourself! (Welcome to a first-time submitee from Athens - a new splash in our international Swirl! Thanks, Panos!) - mh
•••••••••••
The Things I Crave
I crave the feeling of holding
on tight
to my man while he
roars down a long dirt road
on a Harley Davidson.
Destination-
Diners,
cheap but clean motels,
and taverns
all across America.
I crave
a cult of enthusiastic hellos every time I enter a room.
I crave Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan
Jimi, in a stuck elevator
and Bob just as I'm slipping away,
silent and strumming.
My childish taste buds
crave sugar and then salt.
Captain Crunch with Berries
followed by bacon and eggs
and a glass of icy cold Coca Cola
"for to quench my thirst"
I crave words
any which way...
Not so much rhyming
but helping each other out,
to be greater...
Giving the most
common of words
pizzazz... Fuck you!
"Once Upon a Time
and Walla
anything can happen.
I crave words
needy and vulnerable...
on a white dinner plate
and an array of utensils.
I may take them one at a time
with a fancy cocktail fork
or scoop them with frenzy
before they disappear...Nightmare
may cut the bigger words
down to size.
I crave a man I can't have.
I crave being touched
and taken in visually,
slowly and with ease.
I want to be taken
by knuckle or knee
by toe or tongue
by vegetable or fruit
as long I'm taken until
I'm completely and utterly
gone.
I crave death
at times
when I'm bored
or too crazy
to read, even.
Yeah
Every day,I crave music
because my mind thinks poetically
when I'm floating atop a melody.
I crave the dark
when I cannot escape me
and when the sunshine
cuts through my corneas,
like paper.
- Holly Jaffe
(added 03.03.11)
editor's note: Yeah! This poem is a tease, a promise, a temptation. Knife and fork ready, I'm hungry - let's eat!! - mh
•••••••••••
Jazz Instigates
Jazz contemplates with a cigarette
Lit by a jeweled hand
Why Blue’s always sings about
Breaking up happy homes
Shit where is the happiness
In torn apart rooms
With shaded eyes
Now this music
She waves towards the quartet
They wail the same refrain with a
Little loss but no one gets hurt
Not really you see
While she writes Blue’s number
In maroon lipstick
On a linen napkin
That will be tucked in a silk shirt
Voices layered on the mirrored floor
In folding waves to delight
- Gayle Bell
(2 poems added 03.02.11)
editor's note: Yes, Jazz is the "now" instigatorm while Blues is stick on "when." Thanks, Gayle! I know why I like jazz better now. - mh
•••••••••••
MY BANK STATEMENT
When your woman doesn’t seem to remember
All the bad jokes you told the night before,
When you’re not embarrassed to pay for your gas
With a hand full of nickels,
When you overdraw from your bank on purpose
And then you have to borrow money to pay for the fees,
When you’re glad that all your CDs are scratched,
When you try to sleep through the day,
But cant, because your neighbor is mowing his lawn,
When being tired
Is the sweetest way to feel when you are awake,
When you get homesick
But not for home or anywhere else,
Because just barely moving
Makes you feel
Like you’re already there.
- Justin Grimbol
(1 poem added 03.01.11)
editor's note: Here's a different definition of wealth from Justin. Can't get this from your ATM. - mh
•••••••••••
My daughter @ 13
Sealed like one of those clam shells
We used to collect on the beach
You know the ones I mean but
You don’t discuss what you feel
It’s all wrapped up inside and you
Don’t wanna talk to or about boys
Or much anything else now
He doesn’t see what you do or
What he does to you without
Knowing or trying to
But only makes it worse opening
His big fat mouth whilst you
Gaze on horrified like a gazelle
It should have been so different
And your father confuses you
Feel no pity
As it was he that wanted you
Not him the child, you are
Not that you ever were in his eyes
But always in his heart forever
- Charles Pitter
(1 poem added 02.28.11)
editor's note: A father speaks to his child, who doesn't hear, because teenage angst is louder than paternal love. Later, these words will come back to her. - mh
•••••••••••
To Mars and back
(an overdue ode to cigarette paper)
A not-elucidated white-backed silver paper
quandary, an ornament wasted and refractive
could twin in loops and twine to
Mars and back. It makes me feel like
this isn’t dangerous, like orgasms and airbags.
As though it could pardon these pleasantly
earthy mounds of ash or the sweating
meringue beads of mucus I hide in scarlet silk.
This silver paper is the proper rebuttal
to the crab and the alpinists. Keep your air,
I’ve my paper, as organic a buttress as any.
- Schlomo Steel
(added 02.27.11)
editor's note: What could be more natural than to indulge in a holistic habit, in a vegetable vice? No, no danger, none at all. Pardon me while I roll another one... - 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...
Goin' Crazy,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we considered a bad habit from a cosmic perspective, eavesdropped on a father's exposé to his daughter on love, pondered wealth in a different form, instigated a great groove with the right music, incited our base appetites (the best appetites are base) for the things we crave, indulged in a bit of self help for the articulately-challenged, then settled into a deep ponderance, permeated by darkness.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Departure
I hang at the edge of my brain
and I sit by the window –
it is raining.
Black clouds, stormy wind and
flashes behind the hills.
Right there on the other side of
the ridge,
the houses are silent,
but the windows are illuminated.
Inside – happy children laugh,
fathers drink wine and listen to
the radio
as the mothers fix some hot plates.
I try not to think about happiness,
kids and warmness.
I try to shut off my soul and embrace
the arriving brightness.
I lean forward
and the darkness leans with me.
- Peycho Kanev
(2 poems added 03.05.11)
editor's note: Hold back the normal life we see happening around us. Write some words to trap that in time. Then lean forward. (Great to hear from Peycho again!! Another good one on his page - check it out) - mh
•••••••••••
Self-Help Poetry
This is self-help poetry
in braille, I punch in each line
fiercely, so you can read it.
Self-help poetry for minor deities,
the slow train is full of them whenever buses are
on strike, minor deities with rushed lipgloss dabs
and eyeliner curving outwards,
they pray it never rains again,
since water makes their hair feel marshy
in the hands of their casual lovers.
This is self-help poetry in sign language
metaphors in fluid gestures,
poets reciting like street performers in schoolyards,
hospitals and rest stops on motorways,
self-help poetry in bullets and flowers,
in haikus carved on kayak paddles,
rowing against the current.
Poetry intended for salmons,
in the wet tongues of the fish.
Etched on pebbles, thrown in creeks
so you can read it
- Panos Panagiotopoulos
(added 03.04.11)
editor's note: In our Do-It-Yourself world, poetry makes great tools for building whatever we want to build. Go ahead, give it a try - help yourself! (Welcome to a first-time submitee from Athens - a new splash in our international Swirl! Thanks, Panos!) - mh
•••••••••••
The Things I Crave
I crave the feeling of holding
on tight
to my man while he
roars down a long dirt road
on a Harley Davidson.
Destination-
Diners,
cheap but clean motels,
and taverns
all across America.
I crave
a cult of enthusiastic hellos every time I enter a room.
I crave Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan
Jimi, in a stuck elevator
and Bob just as I'm slipping away,
silent and strumming.
My childish taste buds
crave sugar and then salt.
Captain Crunch with Berries
followed by bacon and eggs
and a glass of icy cold Coca Cola
"for to quench my thirst"
I crave words
any which way...
Not so much rhyming
but helping each other out,
to be greater...
Giving the most
common of words
pizzazz... Fuck you!
"Once Upon a Time
and Walla
anything can happen.
I crave words
needy and vulnerable...
on a white dinner plate
and an array of utensils.
I may take them one at a time
with a fancy cocktail fork
or scoop them with frenzy
before they disappear...Nightmare
may cut the bigger words
down to size.
I crave a man I can't have.
I crave being touched
and taken in visually,
slowly and with ease.
I want to be taken
by knuckle or knee
by toe or tongue
by vegetable or fruit
as long I'm taken until
I'm completely and utterly
gone.
I crave death
at times
when I'm bored
or too crazy
to read, even.
Yeah
Every day,I crave music
because my mind thinks poetically
when I'm floating atop a melody.
I crave the dark
when I cannot escape me
and when the sunshine
cuts through my corneas,
like paper.
- Holly Jaffe
(added 03.03.11)
editor's note: Yeah! This poem is a tease, a promise, a temptation. Knife and fork ready, I'm hungry - let's eat!! - mh
•••••••••••
Jazz Instigates
Jazz contemplates with a cigarette
Lit by a jeweled hand
Why Blue’s always sings about
Breaking up happy homes
Shit where is the happiness
In torn apart rooms
With shaded eyes
Now this music
She waves towards the quartet
They wail the same refrain with a
Little loss but no one gets hurt
Not really you see
While she writes Blue’s number
In maroon lipstick
On a linen napkin
That will be tucked in a silk shirt
Voices layered on the mirrored floor
In folding waves to delight
- Gayle Bell
(2 poems added 03.02.11)
editor's note: Yes, Jazz is the "now" instigatorm while Blues is stick on "when." Thanks, Gayle! I know why I like jazz better now. - mh
•••••••••••
MY BANK STATEMENT
When your woman doesn’t seem to remember
All the bad jokes you told the night before,
When you’re not embarrassed to pay for your gas
With a hand full of nickels,
When you overdraw from your bank on purpose
And then you have to borrow money to pay for the fees,
When you’re glad that all your CDs are scratched,
When you try to sleep through the day,
But cant, because your neighbor is mowing his lawn,
When being tired
Is the sweetest way to feel when you are awake,
When you get homesick
But not for home or anywhere else,
Because just barely moving
Makes you feel
Like you’re already there.
- Justin Grimbol
(1 poem added 03.01.11)
editor's note: Here's a different definition of wealth from Justin. Can't get this from your ATM. - mh
•••••••••••
My daughter @ 13
Sealed like one of those clam shells
We used to collect on the beach
You know the ones I mean but
You don’t discuss what you feel
It’s all wrapped up inside and you
Don’t wanna talk to or about boys
Or much anything else now
He doesn’t see what you do or
What he does to you without
Knowing or trying to
But only makes it worse opening
His big fat mouth whilst you
Gaze on horrified like a gazelle
It should have been so different
And your father confuses you
Feel no pity
As it was he that wanted you
Not him the child, you are
Not that you ever were in his eyes
But always in his heart forever
- Charles Pitter
(1 poem added 02.28.11)
editor's note: A father speaks to his child, who doesn't hear, because teenage angst is louder than paternal love. Later, these words will come back to her. - mh
•••••••••••
To Mars and back
(an overdue ode to cigarette paper)
A not-elucidated white-backed silver paper
quandary, an ornament wasted and refractive
could twin in loops and twine to
Mars and back. It makes me feel like
this isn’t dangerous, like orgasms and airbags.
As though it could pardon these pleasantly
earthy mounds of ash or the sweating
meringue beads of mucus I hide in scarlet silk.
This silver paper is the proper rebuttal
to the crab and the alpinists. Keep your air,
I’ve my paper, as organic a buttress as any.
- Schlomo Steel
(added 02.27.11)
editor's note: What could be more natural than to indulge in a holistic habit, in a vegetable vice? No, no danger, none at all. Pardon me while I roll another one... - 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...
Goin' Crazy,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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