The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.23.11
“The hardest thing to explain is the glaringly evident which everybody had decided not to see.” Ayn Rand
Come In (above) by mad swirlin' artist and photographer, Paula Lietz , one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we started with the end, with the first of many personal encounters, the lady who leads us out of this place to the next, then we met her counterpart in now, full of romance and possibilities for her lover's ear, then a new acquaintance, a recurring lunatic incarnation of the one we newly know again, next to eavesdrop on the ruminations of a recluse, recounting wrongs and rapine to reach perfection, then to the lucky lady whose designs are assigned to our account, whether we can afford them or not, followed by an aloof academician, observed by us uninterested and by his ingenue infatuated, to culminate in a sad cinematic play-back from familial desolation and despair, reversed to resume the safety and succour afforded through common caring contemplation of a candle's flickering flame.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Reconstructing memories
That evening, we sat on the kitchen floor, waiting for mother to serve dinner, hands playing rabbits and birds as an oil lamp flickered shadows on clay walls; I was ten that night and happy that father caught so much fish, and that Bihu was near; I was to rehearse for dance and brother would play the dhol.
Then they came, sound of thick boots, and a gunshot rang. The curry pot fell with a clang when the army men with guns told they came for my brother; for he was anti-something, they said; father pleaded with them but they beat him up till his veins cracked and blood ran down to mix with the curry on the floor; and my mother cried herself to oblivion as they dragged her son out through the bamboo gate to the van waiting outside.
He was to be interrogated but he never came back, mother lost her mind and it never came back, father lost a side of his body, and it never came back.
Only if I could undo it all as I did every day in my mind –
brother would walk backwards from the van
to the kitchen to resit on the floor-mat as he
also unbecame anti-something;
the blood would slowly unmix with the curry
and rise and refill father’s veins
as they quietly uncracked
and father unlost a side of his body;
mother’s tears would curl up her cheeks
to be resucked into the ducts
as her lips would bend in a smile for
she would hold the curry pot
that unfell because the bullet was unshot;
and we would unhear the boot thumps
as the four burly army men retrace their steps
walking backwards from the kitchen to the van
as we resume our talks
of the coming Bihu, the fish father caught
and all the while the burning wick would
play shadows on the clay wall
- Ritu Monjori Kalita
(added 04.23.11)
editor's note: Sometimes the only respite there can be for our tormented mind is found in the mercy of a memory tape rewind. In the end, the candlelight burns the same. Wow! Thank you, Ritumonjori! - mh
•••••••••••
Academia
Your true age
is betrayed
by the college ruled
lines on your forehead
and the legal pad color
of your teeth shows me
you have sipped
from the bitter, staining
black coffee of nights
spent alone
straining your eyes
on the classics
your spectacles
and that thickening mid-section
and thinning hairline
and those elbow patches
on your corduroy blazer
say more about you
than the evasive
answers you gave
at the
Q and A
following your lecture
on Lolita
which your
teacher's pet
attended in
her alluring
turtleneck
on that chilly Autumn
at Cambridge
- Ivan Jenson
(1 poem added 04.22.11)
editor's note: So typically stereo-typical when the stereo-type is typified by his physical attributes and his intellectual diatribe on stereo-types... in mono. - mh
•••••••••••
FATE
The breath catches wanting to escape
The tear holds waiting to fall
The word forms wanting to speak
But the emotions are too strong and too weak
So the breaths heave
The tears fall
The words flow
Because…these emotions are too strong and too weak
There are lives to live and moments to share
With so many shadows and burdens to bear
Blocking the life that so eagerly awaits
Holding hearts hostage and fearing the fates
Life’s doors open and then they close
Entering is an option and no one knows
But the chance must be taken as the moment never waits
Closing the door to your future and fate
So take the breaths
Cry the tears
Speak the words
And enter without fear
Because should you wait…it may cost you your fate
- Denise Lumley
(added 04.21.11)
editor's note: There's a lot on the line. Fate awaits every turn. Too poor to pay the cost? No matter, Fate will call your puniest pittance the primary part of your grand design. Whether you pay or not, Fate commands a premium. - mh
•••••••••••
Perfection
My blanket’s made of fire
And my fireplace of tears.
This is the place I can be lonely
Close my eyes, and shut out fear.
This house was built out of regrets
Brick on brick of hopeless hopes,
Mortar made of visions past
That in vain I’ve tried to grope.
My chair is woven from the threads
Of love that once I had to keep.
It has worn thin and nearly bare;
Now patches cover, made of sleep.
My chimney blows out, now and then,
A signal of half-hearted howls.
It drifts on, aimless, through the air
Never crossing human brows.
No fence have I, only the woods
Miles thick, grown from neglect
No one comes in, nothing goes out
Practiced withdrawal makes perfect.
- Samantha Steves
(1 poem added 04.20.11)
editor's note: So long it took to build this secluded house; perfect indeed, when no standards are applied beyond one's pain. Look now, here comes a boy and girl, skipping witlessly down the path. Useless, their trail of crumbs. The birds are mine. (We are pleased to welcome Samantha to our creative congress of Contributing Poets! Check out the poetry on her new page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Bruised Psalms 13 1/3 Wide
Last Wednesday in front
of the Gap this girl in
a denim mini skirt comes
to me, slaps her hip and says,
Water, you know, was Jesus’
favorite medium, though he
had a thing for rotting skin also.
I think she wants me to lay
hands on her; so I raise my left.
Later last Wednesday, just
outside of the Gap, this Security
Guard in a tailored uniform comes
to me, tickles her chin and says,
Do you always enjoy strangers?
And as I help her again
fasten the plastic around
my wrists, I squint.
I’ve never met a stranger,
only the same lunatic
provoking me in a new
face every day.
- Steven Minchin
(added 04.19.11)
editor's note: Can't help our insanity; we expect a different result from the same action when it's a different face. - mh
•••••••••••
The crazy things that crossed my mind while he slept...
He's a damn good kisser.
I could easily forget his bad manners
to be kissed like that.
While I lay here
wide awake
I think,
he looks innocent.
But he has fucked many
in the trenches
(bathroom stalls and back seats)
and a measly few have made
it to his bed.
I lay here fighting my pathetic
romantic notions like
"I can charm this man
with my quirky side dishes...
Reciting Emerson during fellatio,
Pulling weeds in the nude
and eating without utensils.
I’m having thoughts that should
only come to life, in the movies.
There's little harm in
having a counterfeit nightmare
complete with thrashing and whimpering.
I could prepare him.
a manly breakfast
with plenty of meat and
well done toast.
I should leave
him pondering his manhood.
I’ll leave him forever more
with no note,
like in the movies,
tortured with violins
and relentless rain.
Should I take a shower
and leave the door slightly open
so he can hear me sing
Karen Carpenter songs?
I could hide away
in his pantry.
with the Little Debbies
and the Beef Jerky
and once he’s stopped eating
and has grown a beard
I’ll come out.
I’ll curl up in
his easy chair
with a good book
barefoot and glowing
in morning sunshine.
Or should I write him a sonnet,
spray it with vanilla musk
and slip it into his pillowcase?
Should I
dust his trophies,
rearrange his living room
so that one can see the flat screen
and the pool
from every seat?
I could scour
his bathroom and
and buy him a plug in.
I could train his dog
to find the remote
and lick his balls,
with a jar of Jiffy.
Should I mend his socks,
or make him a scrap book
of his conquests,
complete with captions?
Yes!
Yes!
He has a sense of humor
and a library.
He recycles and has a compost tumbler.
The dark soft curl
that’s lost in his ear
should I lift it to my lips
or should I cut it off
and place it in my pocket?
- Holly Jaffe
(1 poem added 04.18.11)
editor's note: If he keeps sleeping, she will keep thinkin' up things; create new worlds. Turn him into a gerbil or a ferret. If she falls asleep, all she has thought will dissipate into his dreams. Nightmares? Or, Sweet Reveries? - mh
•••••••••••
THE END
It’s coming for you. On this night, the wind steals your breath. Far away and around the corner, fires feast on forests, encircling beautiful barren woods, desiccated and old and exposed to the vicissitudes of nature and Darwinian law. And rushing forth from the sea, mammoth tides flood the sands on abandoned beaches stretching far, it seems, to eternity.
It’s coming for you. It’s your time, and nature’s justice. You can’t escape. A western cottonmouth comes out of hibernation and travels across the same road it slithered along last year. But now, it doesn’t make it. Lifeless, it lies still by the side of the road. On another trail, rattlesnakes that left their underground lair in search of food come to the end, a dark, breathless vanishing point on a dark road.
It’s coming for me too. It’s my time, perhaps. I’m not sure. I’ve got things to do and plans that might keep me busy for at least another decade. My body’s old but my mind’s fresh and young and vibrant. I’m not ready to go. Don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I protest. But the Lady comes into my home and gazes at me. I look away.
I scurry out of the house and vanish into the crowds. I hide amongst the living and the living dead. I spend a few hours in the Public Library on 42nd Street. Later, I visit the King Tut exhibition that enchants and thrills me. Then I go on the half-price line and get theater tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera. After the show, I stroll along Broadway.
Suddenly, the wind howls and I’m rushing through the labyrinth heading home. A storm’s coming and I need to lie in my king-size bed and rest. But tonight, I won’t make it. The Lady’s here with me in the wind. She followed me wherever I went. Guess I’m not alone, not tonight. I stop abruptly and turn around. She smiles wickedly at me, her dark, eerie eyes holding me in her universe.
I rush to the Lady. Now, she stands in the middle of traffic. She waits for me. I’m not afraid anymore. I’ve got a rendezvous tonight with her. Now, on Broadway, beneath the sprawling, glittering lights, she’s my date. She’s mine. And I belong to her, perhaps, for all eternity.
- Mel Waldman
(2 poems added 04.17.11)
editor's note: Even on Broadway, we all gotta dance with the woman we came in with - it's only right (also unavoidable). Sooner or later, we're all gonna dance... - 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...
Seein' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Come In (above) by mad swirlin' artist and photographer, Paula Lietz , one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we started with the end, with the first of many personal encounters, the lady who leads us out of this place to the next, then we met her counterpart in now, full of romance and possibilities for her lover's ear, then a new acquaintance, a recurring lunatic incarnation of the one we newly know again, next to eavesdrop on the ruminations of a recluse, recounting wrongs and rapine to reach perfection, then to the lucky lady whose designs are assigned to our account, whether we can afford them or not, followed by an aloof academician, observed by us uninterested and by his ingenue infatuated, to culminate in a sad cinematic play-back from familial desolation and despair, reversed to resume the safety and succour afforded through common caring contemplation of a candle's flickering flame.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Reconstructing memories
That evening, we sat on the kitchen floor, waiting for mother to serve dinner, hands playing rabbits and birds as an oil lamp flickered shadows on clay walls; I was ten that night and happy that father caught so much fish, and that Bihu was near; I was to rehearse for dance and brother would play the dhol.
Then they came, sound of thick boots, and a gunshot rang. The curry pot fell with a clang when the army men with guns told they came for my brother; for he was anti-something, they said; father pleaded with them but they beat him up till his veins cracked and blood ran down to mix with the curry on the floor; and my mother cried herself to oblivion as they dragged her son out through the bamboo gate to the van waiting outside.
He was to be interrogated but he never came back, mother lost her mind and it never came back, father lost a side of his body, and it never came back.
Only if I could undo it all as I did every day in my mind –
brother would walk backwards from the van
to the kitchen to resit on the floor-mat as he
also unbecame anti-something;
the blood would slowly unmix with the curry
and rise and refill father’s veins
as they quietly uncracked
and father unlost a side of his body;
mother’s tears would curl up her cheeks
to be resucked into the ducts
as her lips would bend in a smile for
she would hold the curry pot
that unfell because the bullet was unshot;
and we would unhear the boot thumps
as the four burly army men retrace their steps
walking backwards from the kitchen to the van
as we resume our talks
of the coming Bihu, the fish father caught
and all the while the burning wick would
play shadows on the clay wall
- Ritu Monjori Kalita
(added 04.23.11)
editor's note: Sometimes the only respite there can be for our tormented mind is found in the mercy of a memory tape rewind. In the end, the candlelight burns the same. Wow! Thank you, Ritumonjori! - mh
•••••••••••
Academia
Your true age
is betrayed
by the college ruled
lines on your forehead
and the legal pad color
of your teeth shows me
you have sipped
from the bitter, staining
black coffee of nights
spent alone
straining your eyes
on the classics
your spectacles
and that thickening mid-section
and thinning hairline
and those elbow patches
on your corduroy blazer
say more about you
than the evasive
answers you gave
at the
Q and A
following your lecture
on Lolita
which your
teacher's pet
attended in
her alluring
turtleneck
on that chilly Autumn
at Cambridge
- Ivan Jenson
(1 poem added 04.22.11)
editor's note: So typically stereo-typical when the stereo-type is typified by his physical attributes and his intellectual diatribe on stereo-types... in mono. - mh
•••••••••••
FATE
The breath catches wanting to escape
The tear holds waiting to fall
The word forms wanting to speak
But the emotions are too strong and too weak
So the breaths heave
The tears fall
The words flow
Because…these emotions are too strong and too weak
There are lives to live and moments to share
With so many shadows and burdens to bear
Blocking the life that so eagerly awaits
Holding hearts hostage and fearing the fates
Life’s doors open and then they close
Entering is an option and no one knows
But the chance must be taken as the moment never waits
Closing the door to your future and fate
So take the breaths
Cry the tears
Speak the words
And enter without fear
Because should you wait…it may cost you your fate
- Denise Lumley
(added 04.21.11)
editor's note: There's a lot on the line. Fate awaits every turn. Too poor to pay the cost? No matter, Fate will call your puniest pittance the primary part of your grand design. Whether you pay or not, Fate commands a premium. - mh
•••••••••••
Perfection
My blanket’s made of fire
And my fireplace of tears.
This is the place I can be lonely
Close my eyes, and shut out fear.
This house was built out of regrets
Brick on brick of hopeless hopes,
Mortar made of visions past
That in vain I’ve tried to grope.
My chair is woven from the threads
Of love that once I had to keep.
It has worn thin and nearly bare;
Now patches cover, made of sleep.
My chimney blows out, now and then,
A signal of half-hearted howls.
It drifts on, aimless, through the air
Never crossing human brows.
No fence have I, only the woods
Miles thick, grown from neglect
No one comes in, nothing goes out
Practiced withdrawal makes perfect.
- Samantha Steves
(1 poem added 04.20.11)
editor's note: So long it took to build this secluded house; perfect indeed, when no standards are applied beyond one's pain. Look now, here comes a boy and girl, skipping witlessly down the path. Useless, their trail of crumbs. The birds are mine. (We are pleased to welcome Samantha to our creative congress of Contributing Poets! Check out the poetry on her new page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Bruised Psalms 13 1/3 Wide
Last Wednesday in front
of the Gap this girl in
a denim mini skirt comes
to me, slaps her hip and says,
Water, you know, was Jesus’
favorite medium, though he
had a thing for rotting skin also.
I think she wants me to lay
hands on her; so I raise my left.
Later last Wednesday, just
outside of the Gap, this Security
Guard in a tailored uniform comes
to me, tickles her chin and says,
Do you always enjoy strangers?
And as I help her again
fasten the plastic around
my wrists, I squint.
I’ve never met a stranger,
only the same lunatic
provoking me in a new
face every day.
- Steven Minchin
(added 04.19.11)
editor's note: Can't help our insanity; we expect a different result from the same action when it's a different face. - mh
•••••••••••
The crazy things that crossed my mind while he slept...
He's a damn good kisser.
I could easily forget his bad manners
to be kissed like that.
While I lay here
wide awake
I think,
he looks innocent.
But he has fucked many
in the trenches
(bathroom stalls and back seats)
and a measly few have made
it to his bed.
I lay here fighting my pathetic
romantic notions like
"I can charm this man
with my quirky side dishes...
Reciting Emerson during fellatio,
Pulling weeds in the nude
and eating without utensils.
I’m having thoughts that should
only come to life, in the movies.
There's little harm in
having a counterfeit nightmare
complete with thrashing and whimpering.
I could prepare him.
a manly breakfast
with plenty of meat and
well done toast.
I should leave
him pondering his manhood.
I’ll leave him forever more
with no note,
like in the movies,
tortured with violins
and relentless rain.
Should I take a shower
and leave the door slightly open
so he can hear me sing
Karen Carpenter songs?
I could hide away
in his pantry.
with the Little Debbies
and the Beef Jerky
and once he’s stopped eating
and has grown a beard
I’ll come out.
I’ll curl up in
his easy chair
with a good book
barefoot and glowing
in morning sunshine.
Or should I write him a sonnet,
spray it with vanilla musk
and slip it into his pillowcase?
Should I
dust his trophies,
rearrange his living room
so that one can see the flat screen
and the pool
from every seat?
I could scour
his bathroom and
and buy him a plug in.
I could train his dog
to find the remote
and lick his balls,
with a jar of Jiffy.
Should I mend his socks,
or make him a scrap book
of his conquests,
complete with captions?
Yes!
Yes!
He has a sense of humor
and a library.
He recycles and has a compost tumbler.
The dark soft curl
that’s lost in his ear
should I lift it to my lips
or should I cut it off
and place it in my pocket?
- Holly Jaffe
(1 poem added 04.18.11)
editor's note: If he keeps sleeping, she will keep thinkin' up things; create new worlds. Turn him into a gerbil or a ferret. If she falls asleep, all she has thought will dissipate into his dreams. Nightmares? Or, Sweet Reveries? - mh
•••••••••••
THE END
It’s coming for you. On this night, the wind steals your breath. Far away and around the corner, fires feast on forests, encircling beautiful barren woods, desiccated and old and exposed to the vicissitudes of nature and Darwinian law. And rushing forth from the sea, mammoth tides flood the sands on abandoned beaches stretching far, it seems, to eternity.
It’s coming for you. It’s your time, and nature’s justice. You can’t escape. A western cottonmouth comes out of hibernation and travels across the same road it slithered along last year. But now, it doesn’t make it. Lifeless, it lies still by the side of the road. On another trail, rattlesnakes that left their underground lair in search of food come to the end, a dark, breathless vanishing point on a dark road.
It’s coming for me too. It’s my time, perhaps. I’m not sure. I’ve got things to do and plans that might keep me busy for at least another decade. My body’s old but my mind’s fresh and young and vibrant. I’m not ready to go. Don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I protest. But the Lady comes into my home and gazes at me. I look away.
I scurry out of the house and vanish into the crowds. I hide amongst the living and the living dead. I spend a few hours in the Public Library on 42nd Street. Later, I visit the King Tut exhibition that enchants and thrills me. Then I go on the half-price line and get theater tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera. After the show, I stroll along Broadway.
Suddenly, the wind howls and I’m rushing through the labyrinth heading home. A storm’s coming and I need to lie in my king-size bed and rest. But tonight, I won’t make it. The Lady’s here with me in the wind. She followed me wherever I went. Guess I’m not alone, not tonight. I stop abruptly and turn around. She smiles wickedly at me, her dark, eerie eyes holding me in her universe.
I rush to the Lady. Now, she stands in the middle of traffic. She waits for me. I’m not afraid anymore. I’ve got a rendezvous tonight with her. Now, on Broadway, beneath the sprawling, glittering lights, she’s my date. She’s mine. And I belong to her, perhaps, for all eternity.
- Mel Waldman
(2 poems added 04.17.11)
editor's note: Even on Broadway, we all gotta dance with the woman we came in with - it's only right (also unavoidable). Sooner or later, we're all gonna dance... - 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...
Seein' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Comments