The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 09.03.11
"Publish it. Write it. Sing it. Swing to it. Yodel it. We wrote it, that's all we wanted to do." ~ Woody Guthrie
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we ducked deranged daddy driver's side impact; we strained to hear the whisper of scars; we smoldered on the verge of skyrocket love, sought the short fuse; let lapse a late subscription to a lost love; doffed our dreams, drained dandies, let others drape themselves, we're done; but not outdone, we burned body to free flying soul, unchained, enchanting; last, we were rapt (also wrapped?) in a ravishing recount of love lost in time. Think I'll read'em all again - damn the time! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Stolen Time, Time Stolen
When I met him I was naked.
Pulled the cheap black-red satin slick
sheet around me,
masquerading as last night’s gown.
He smiled, blue-eyed elfin grin
plopped on dented clatter rattle metal toolbox
feet on beaten brown wear worn guitar case
and didn’t leave,
Even when I fumble tugged,
the shiny sheet pinned underneath me,
trying to pull it tighter, the pillow closer,
pretend I was clothed.
We three discussed Evita, Phantom,
Lewis Carroll, Richard Feynman.
Three? Yes, but only naked-awkward for him.
In his next apartment,
still three, but no longer two and one,
on a humid sticky sweet honeysuckled night,
we peered into the eyes of gargoyles
mythical beings, telling tales of souls cavernous wicked.
By the cathedral was a fountain
sparkling gurgling churning water above
a slick whiteblack marble pool below.
Jumping dunking laughing.
Back in his room, he pulled me, wet,
onto his yellowgreen flannel sheets, threw our clothes
on the gritty hardwood floor.
We slept curled like children
over and under, touching, but not exploring
dreaming, dripping, on hot damp cotton.
>>> read the rest of "Stolen Time, Time Stolen" here. <<<
- Elizabeth Glass
(added 09.03.11)
editor's note: As love stories go, this one will take you far, while there's time... read on, you really should. - mh
Unbound
Tie my body, if you must,
My soul you cannot bind.
it soars through the iron bars towards open skies,
squeezes through doors jammed with clichés,
floats through the meandering river of our lives.
Is grasped in your palm,
and then set free in your song.
stored in your diaries,
recovered in memories.
It’s as Real as the promised Land of Eden,
and as Mythic as the Truth that I speak.
It’s in the rays that warmed your bones,
And the wind that kissed your face.
You may lose me in your thoughts,
but in You I remain.
I glide through your blood,
twisting in your gut,
gushing to your limbs,
ambulating around your heart,
And then released in a quick guffaw,
a long sigh,
a silent tear,
and a distracted doodle.
Your arrow pierces my heart,
but my soul it cannot touch.
You crush it like dry leaves,
but it blossoms from dust.
You burn it to ash,
but it rises like a phoenix.
It’s closer than your fragrance,
and farther than the horizon.
You can touch it with your eyes,
and it slips through your fingers.
You chain my body my dears,
but Me you cannot bind.
I am as fickle as your marriage vows,
as inevitable as changing seasons,
as smooth as a politician’s lie,
and as free as a cuckoo’s cry!
- Saheli Khastagir
(added 09.02.11)
editor's note: Can't help but be what we be, no matter what constraints might constrict. Loud sing cuckoo!! - mh
The Fabric of Life
I am a human parrot
repeating singsong
that was sung to me
in my birdcage crib
I am made of
made for mass
consumption
products
and therefore I am
part Mickey Mouse
part Dr. Pepper
with Abe Lincoln penny
thoughts which add up
to a pocket-full
of gently used ideals
and when it is all over
donate my
overalls
to Goodwill
and re-sell my
denim dreams
to those
willing to
slip into them
in the
changing rooms
of time
- Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 09.01.11)
editor's note: Yes, psychic hand-me-downs, the ultimate string theory - reincarnation of ideas. We humans pass through once; so try on as many as you can before you pick your fit. (Another from Ivan on his page; he's such a tease.) - mh
OPEN DAY OF A STRANGER
Dawn
Breaks a year
Of delicate mornings. Untouched,
You remain a statuette. You turn
Pages, fragments of a magazine;
Your eyes, reflecting cosmetic ads,
Deceptively wear me out;
Turn me down to a fading star.
You shrug; indifferent gestures, becoming
A different person: a chrysalis
Sealed from within. Surrounding you
Earthly words are frozen, holding
No surprise.
Burning-up
In rarefied air, I become
Unattached from your being.
Even passing you chair:
An acquired skill,
An estrangement of hands
Devoid of feeling.
Already having
Thrown clothes in a bag,
There remains
The simple act of opening a door;
Hoping my exit
Is without your thunderous applause.
I would prefer your tears
Or some of your old magic.
Those ancient ways you had,
Of arranging
A mid-morning falling of stars
For special celebrations.
Perhaps our precious days
Could be words in a magazine,
The legend would tell
Of ecstasy and the moon,
In the night your white throat
Arching, yearning for that sigh –
The sign of perfection.
Untouched.
Hung like a star.
- Derrick Gaskin
(1 poem added 08.31.11)
editor's note: Exit becomes magazine fodder for lost love, lost interest. Must have been a subscription; like a magazine, expired in a year. - mh
Smolder
You’ve got a long fuse,
The inferno is building.
You’re teeth graze my lip
Pulling gently, possessively.
I will be yours,
My body curled against you.
You melt into me,
In that kiss we are one.
- Renee Garafola
(1 poem added 08.30.11)
editor's note: Such sweet accelerant is the graze of a lip - enough to ignite my slightest passion. No smolder here. Skyrockets! - mh
SCARS
Sometimes they itch, sometimes
they burn:
the scars.
Sometimes they wake me in the middle of the night,
wordlessly whispering in my ear, whispering...
whispering.
Of course I know they don't itch or burn or whisper,
I know it is all in my mind,
all
in
my
mind,
but the mind can be a dark and dangerous place,
sitting softly as it does
in the centre of the chemical laden brain,
and so I listen
when they whisper, I scratch
when they itch, I toss and turn
when they burn,
and pretend to feel
no raw regret
that they are there, tell-tale tattoos
for all the world to see.
- Edward Lee
(added 08.29.11)
editor's note: Here is a verbal photo from one of our Mad Gallery artists; a snapshot of a "chemical laden" experience that is unique and common to all. (See some of Edwards photos here.) - mh
Passenger Seat
- Still I belong to the progenitors
Steering wheel
Fill me in - your ego.
When I stow away
This wee car-
Is the roof
Over my head
When dad slaps
Me just like when
He points his gun
At my temple, but
Then I paint the
Picture back in July
When we ignore
Him for he is snapped
Still he is my
Dad - lost psycho
- Sarah Gamutan
(added 08.28.11)
editor's note: Auto safety is complicated when you're the passenger; it's nerve-wracking enough, just worrying over whether the driver paid for side-mounted airbags. - 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...
Publishin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we ducked deranged daddy driver's side impact; we strained to hear the whisper of scars; we smoldered on the verge of skyrocket love, sought the short fuse; let lapse a late subscription to a lost love; doffed our dreams, drained dandies, let others drape themselves, we're done; but not outdone, we burned body to free flying soul, unchained, enchanting; last, we were rapt (also wrapped?) in a ravishing recount of love lost in time. Think I'll read'em all again - damn the time! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Stolen Time, Time Stolen
When I met him I was naked.
Pulled the cheap black-red satin slick
sheet around me,
masquerading as last night’s gown.
He smiled, blue-eyed elfin grin
plopped on dented clatter rattle metal toolbox
feet on beaten brown wear worn guitar case
and didn’t leave,
Even when I fumble tugged,
the shiny sheet pinned underneath me,
trying to pull it tighter, the pillow closer,
pretend I was clothed.
We three discussed Evita, Phantom,
Lewis Carroll, Richard Feynman.
Three? Yes, but only naked-awkward for him.
In his next apartment,
still three, but no longer two and one,
on a humid sticky sweet honeysuckled night,
we peered into the eyes of gargoyles
mythical beings, telling tales of souls cavernous wicked.
By the cathedral was a fountain
sparkling gurgling churning water above
a slick whiteblack marble pool below.
Jumping dunking laughing.
Back in his room, he pulled me, wet,
onto his yellowgreen flannel sheets, threw our clothes
on the gritty hardwood floor.
We slept curled like children
over and under, touching, but not exploring
dreaming, dripping, on hot damp cotton.
>>> read the rest of "Stolen Time, Time Stolen" here. <<<
- Elizabeth Glass
(added 09.03.11)
editor's note: As love stories go, this one will take you far, while there's time... read on, you really should. - mh
Unbound
Tie my body, if you must,
My soul you cannot bind.
it soars through the iron bars towards open skies,
squeezes through doors jammed with clichés,
floats through the meandering river of our lives.
Is grasped in your palm,
and then set free in your song.
stored in your diaries,
recovered in memories.
It’s as Real as the promised Land of Eden,
and as Mythic as the Truth that I speak.
It’s in the rays that warmed your bones,
And the wind that kissed your face.
You may lose me in your thoughts,
but in You I remain.
I glide through your blood,
twisting in your gut,
gushing to your limbs,
ambulating around your heart,
And then released in a quick guffaw,
a long sigh,
a silent tear,
and a distracted doodle.
Your arrow pierces my heart,
but my soul it cannot touch.
You crush it like dry leaves,
but it blossoms from dust.
You burn it to ash,
but it rises like a phoenix.
It’s closer than your fragrance,
and farther than the horizon.
You can touch it with your eyes,
and it slips through your fingers.
You chain my body my dears,
but Me you cannot bind.
I am as fickle as your marriage vows,
as inevitable as changing seasons,
as smooth as a politician’s lie,
and as free as a cuckoo’s cry!
- Saheli Khastagir
(added 09.02.11)
editor's note: Can't help but be what we be, no matter what constraints might constrict. Loud sing cuckoo!! - mh
The Fabric of Life
I am a human parrot
repeating singsong
that was sung to me
in my birdcage crib
I am made of
made for mass
consumption
products
and therefore I am
part Mickey Mouse
part Dr. Pepper
with Abe Lincoln penny
thoughts which add up
to a pocket-full
of gently used ideals
and when it is all over
donate my
overalls
to Goodwill
and re-sell my
denim dreams
to those
willing to
slip into them
in the
changing rooms
of time
- Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 09.01.11)
editor's note: Yes, psychic hand-me-downs, the ultimate string theory - reincarnation of ideas. We humans pass through once; so try on as many as you can before you pick your fit. (Another from Ivan on his page; he's such a tease.) - mh
OPEN DAY OF A STRANGER
Dawn
Breaks a year
Of delicate mornings. Untouched,
You remain a statuette. You turn
Pages, fragments of a magazine;
Your eyes, reflecting cosmetic ads,
Deceptively wear me out;
Turn me down to a fading star.
You shrug; indifferent gestures, becoming
A different person: a chrysalis
Sealed from within. Surrounding you
Earthly words are frozen, holding
No surprise.
Burning-up
In rarefied air, I become
Unattached from your being.
Even passing you chair:
An acquired skill,
An estrangement of hands
Devoid of feeling.
Already having
Thrown clothes in a bag,
There remains
The simple act of opening a door;
Hoping my exit
Is without your thunderous applause.
I would prefer your tears
Or some of your old magic.
Those ancient ways you had,
Of arranging
A mid-morning falling of stars
For special celebrations.
Perhaps our precious days
Could be words in a magazine,
The legend would tell
Of ecstasy and the moon,
In the night your white throat
Arching, yearning for that sigh –
The sign of perfection.
Untouched.
Hung like a star.
- Derrick Gaskin
(1 poem added 08.31.11)
editor's note: Exit becomes magazine fodder for lost love, lost interest. Must have been a subscription; like a magazine, expired in a year. - mh
Smolder
You’ve got a long fuse,
The inferno is building.
You’re teeth graze my lip
Pulling gently, possessively.
I will be yours,
My body curled against you.
You melt into me,
In that kiss we are one.
- Renee Garafola
(1 poem added 08.30.11)
editor's note: Such sweet accelerant is the graze of a lip - enough to ignite my slightest passion. No smolder here. Skyrockets! - mh
SCARS
Sometimes they itch, sometimes
they burn:
the scars.
Sometimes they wake me in the middle of the night,
wordlessly whispering in my ear, whispering...
whispering.
Of course I know they don't itch or burn or whisper,
I know it is all in my mind,
all
in
my
mind,
but the mind can be a dark and dangerous place,
sitting softly as it does
in the centre of the chemical laden brain,
and so I listen
when they whisper, I scratch
when they itch, I toss and turn
when they burn,
and pretend to feel
no raw regret
that they are there, tell-tale tattoos
for all the world to see.
- Edward Lee
(added 08.29.11)
editor's note: Here is a verbal photo from one of our Mad Gallery artists; a snapshot of a "chemical laden" experience that is unique and common to all. (See some of Edwards photos here.) - mh
Passenger Seat
- Still I belong to the progenitors
Steering wheel
Fill me in - your ego.
When I stow away
This wee car-
Is the roof
Over my head
When dad slaps
Me just like when
He points his gun
At my temple, but
Then I paint the
Picture back in July
When we ignore
Him for he is snapped
Still he is my
Dad - lost psycho
- Sarah Gamutan
(added 08.28.11)
editor's note: Auto safety is complicated when you're the passenger; it's nerve-wracking enough, just worrying over whether the driver paid for side-mounted airbags. - 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...
Publishin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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