The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.24.11

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Ernest Hemingway


This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we donned our rose-colored perspectives to dull our reactions to a death-defying feat; we hailed Caesar but held our course, blueberry delights trump all other allegiences; we pondered a fruitcake allegory, pilgrim's progress toward a popsicle present; we made no apologies for no obeisance, life is what life does; we, with sins absolved, bounced brightly back into the butter, honey-crazed bees we are; we coveted the covering of conscience-couture to hide our vivid (to us only) vulnerabilities; then, though exhausted from so much self-indulgence, we delved deeper, into dead-and-gone introspectives - for grief and regret are ever the affliction of the living. Poetry as life? Damn poets! They would have us believe life is poetry.

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...



My body is not perfect,
It has never been,
Time does not help either.
Still, I'm not bothered
When you see me naked.
Perfect or not,
I'm not ashamed.

It's different with my poems.
Some of them I share with you -
Those where my pain
Is nicely combed,
My soul is covered with
Many layers of wrappings
Glued together by resin of laughter,
Placed into a painted
Sarcophagus of rhyme.

Other poems though,
Where my pain is
Unkempt and disheveled,
My soul is naked,
With ugly bulges of sorrow protruding
Beneath the worn out rags of illusions,

I may show them to somebody else,

Not to you, I don't want you to see them.

- Irena Pasvinter

(2 poems added 07.22.11)

editor's note: In Utopia, prospective mates are allowed a perusal of each other's nakedness before they seal the deal; no like, no deal. In Poesia, many poets are single... (Another great poem from Irena on her page, about records management, check it out.) - mh


Copyeditor’s Dream

Earlier than ever this morning I wait
for copy to vacuum. It must be free of error
and the deadline is near.
But what matters today isn’t news about war,
poverty or race riots ripping the city.
What matters today is the warm quicksand
of that good woman under me again,
taking me in. Let her writhe,
let her tug at her knees, let her legs go off
in every direction. Let her take what I have
and lunge for more. I’ll be here forever,
a bee crazed by the honey
buttering her thighs.

- Donal Mahoney

(added 07.21.11)

editor's note: When it's time to get down to business, there's no better example than the instinctive industriousness of bees. Let's get to buzzin', folks! - mh


Prufrock Redux

I am old
Prufrockian old
(I am told)
My toes are cold
Teeth filled with gold
I cannot hold
A fork.

I am old
A very old

(Not bold
I am told)
There is mold
In the rolled
Of my cuffs.

Don’t scold
I am too old.

- Neil Ellman

(added 07.20.11)

editor's note: Keep yer admonitions to yerselves, youngsters! After so many years, "no excuse" is the best we can offer. - mh


Popsicle Aquifer

Wipe the saliva off the sky.
My forehead desires it.
I am sweating in a coffin
Sweet as a lyre.
This decadent polyester balloon candy
Entices me.
Automatic sugar,
Diabetes moonbeam
Slash eulogy seduces me,
Slipping off like stockings
Silky as an ear drum
Beating itself alone
To pulp in a seashell.
I will find my demise
In a basket of grapes,
Plums, pears & bananas.
Prepare the marmalade.
Men, I am here,
Distended as fruit cake,
Peanut butter.

- Quinten Collier

(1 poem added 07.19.11)

editor's note: Ultimately, life is a good lickin'... for someone... or something. - mh


Under The Black Roof #3

On the path to your body
I walked.

All along the way
blueberries were singing
this old psalm known from all :
moritari te salutant...

- Walter Ruhlmann

(added 07.18.11)

editor's note: Yes, we who are about to die - with anticipation over your sweet succulent surprise; with terror over the thought that one time, down the line, will be the last - salute you. - mh



Up there,
The acrobat who always keeps
His balance on the wire;
The pirouette, the dancing feet,
A secret glance towards the ground.
An earth that looks so soft, so far below:
The sweetness of a kiss, a gentle touch
Of sawdust in the spine.
The restfulness of sleep
Is all he needs.

And now,
The audience applauds and children squeal,
Their ice-creams held... and lovers feel,
Hands interwoven in a secret dark
Outside the spotlight beam.
They cannot sense his tired mind,
A body sick of perfect pace.

The peace,
The earth that looks so soft,
The sweetness of a kiss,
It only needs one step, one miss.
His final trick: he gathers in a ball
Above their heads. A triple somersault,
So easily it’s done.

Screams that fill his ears
Are music in a dream.
His mind so still
Like earth;
The acrobat, no longer

Worries me.

- Derrick Gaskin

(added 07.17.11)

editor's note: A death-defying feat, indeed. We watch with morbid fascination and sigh relief when the performance is perfectly completed; just as we hope to delight the divine audience, watching our own tightrope walk through life. Hmmmm... I recommend a net. - 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...


Johnny O

MH Clay
Poetry Editor


Popular Posts