The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 10.29.11
“Get busy living, or get busy dying.” Stephen King
under the weather (above) by featured artist, Eleanor Leonne Bennett.
Our initial reaction upon first seeing Eleanor's photographs was "Wow!" Then we were Wow!ed again when we read her bio. At the ripe age of 15, this young artist has already been published and featured around the world. It's no surprise to us, either - her keen ability to capture life's subtle, eerie truths is definitely worth all the applause. It sure makes you wonder where she'll be in 10 years, huh? Go get yourself a first look and you can say YOU discovered this talented, young photographer way back when... - mio
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we considered an irrelevant question, the answer rife with negative implications; we threw out the bucket and just said "Fuck it!"; we lost our rejuvenated horizontal expectancy, grown cold with age; we defied another question, the stirring of life's stew until thickened; we tripped over time's eternal apple, unheard, unseen, unreal; we revisited the state of our soul, this time spent with a pin-prick puncture, expelled with a whoosh and a swirl; lastly, we perfected our defiance to invade the Day of the Dead as a beast unbroken. Trick or treat! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
A BEAST UNBROKEN
when I become death
the night will darken
and the beaten path does unfurl
I must break the circle
when I become death
the blood of thy mother
where does the river go?
I must wound this healer
when I become death
a hundred years of solitude
through the eye of a mollusk
I must look into this mirror
when I become death
scatter my ashes over
the charred ruins of the great empire
I must dig through this flesh
When I become death
my memories obscure
leaving a vague face of joy
I must seek a newer poison
When I become death
everything will burn
and I will start again
I must cleanse the void
When I become death
I will stand before the behometh
a beast unbroken
- Nicholas Martin
(1 poem added 10.29.11)
editor's note: As we approach this Day of the Dead, we reflect upon another Day, when we become... - mh
My Soul, She Feels!
Today I feel my soul
Coursing through my veins as though...
She is desirous to explore the universe,
As I, earthbound, have always been to explore right here.
I am sure if I feel but one prick today at all
She will rush out in a whoosh...
Then a swirl. And gone into oblivion,
Never again to pulse nor ache.
And only time can divulge...
The limit of flesh constraint.
- Mike R Owens
(added 10.28.11)
editor's note: In with a bang, out with a fizzle; a pin-pricked balloon darting into oblivion. Who cares? Let's test those limits! - mh
TIME
Time is a piper
but I cannot hear it.
Time is a river
but I cannot feel it.
Time is Eden’s apple
but I cannot taste it.
Time is a glacier
but I cannot see it.
Time is an inferno
but I cannot smell it.
Time is senseless
but I can always sense it.
Time is the edge
of eternity.
- Robert E. Petras
(added 10.27.11)
editor's note: Yes, dance along the precipice and thumb your nose; can't see it, etc., so, what's the problem? Uh, don't trip on that apple. - mh
Apraxia
Have you ever seen an
elephant gas mask?
Dominatrix mask for the moon
or a scarecrow made out
of three mailboxes?
Paper cuts into readymade
bleeding hearts.
Have you ever scored a sore,
exposing the pink continent beneath?
Sylvia said, "Love set you going like a fat gold watch"
but I am made of copper -
the coiled mass from a
mothers unspun thread.
These little houses
have no homes
to hold them - only a plot,
that must steep
in order to thicken.
- Kayla Smith
(1 poem added 10.26.11)
editor's note: Just because you asked, doesn't mean I will. Masks, scarecrows, what else? I refuse to see a thing until the plot thickens. - mh
Waiting the Cool
I
I remember I was sturdy enough,
The multifarious chores were effortless for me,
I used to drive and drag the cart,
Carrying weighty loads was nothing for me,
During the day in the scorching sun,
I wasn’t influenced from sweating and fatigue,
My frame was as hard as iron,
My heart was extended enough,
I used to sleep around the streets,
My vision was too clear,
I used to see my world,
Where I was the hero around,
Life was so free,
I used to roam any nook of my world,
There was no chain of command upon me,
I used to be arrogant on me,
There was no worry in my psyche,
My horizontal expectancy was on my soul,
That used to rejuvenate me.
II
I know my heart is shrinking now,
It pumps differently,
My vision is leaving me,
It pains me and I feel dry into it,
My frame is putrefying and rotting,
I am stooped now and becoming shorter,
My muscles are blemishing and fading,
I see the wrinkles are teasing me,
My entire status is the centre of all diseases,
I’m waiting the day,
My life is as like the setting sun,
I shelter with homogeneity to me,
My life is as the dew against dawn,
I have countless uneasiness,
I feel the frost in my heart,
Now I wait the day-the end!
- Chiranjibi Niroula
(1 poem added 10.25.11)
editor's note: Doesn't have to be "the end" - keep that "horizontal expectancy" on your soul. Be cool! - mh
fuck it list
bucket lists are bullshit
what a waste of time
living for dreams
you didn't believe in
chasing crippled notions and
following losers to the gray zone
of equality
in the waning moments
awareness sets in and now
you're ready?
for what,
a certain sunset
to share with yourself
a thirty minute meal
overpriced and consumed, reduced
to a golden crap
puking in some unpronounceable ocean
because you saw a movie and.....
how about a kick in your ass
for not
doing more when you were...alive
when the grind was eating your soul
so the kids could be
happy or
the endless evenings spent smiling
at the table set just so, like a Williams-Sonoma ad
the one your ex-wife swore the Wilson's did not have,
yet
just because Mr. Handcock drove a Jag
you bought the Bentley
showing neighbors how important
you think…you are
the dust on your heels confirms,
dreamers die slower deaths
I say, let's speed up the process
.
.
.
I'm working on my list
my, fuck it list
going nowhere and melting
into myself, at peace with me
even as the red ants of fate dine on my bones,
constant comfort is near
fuck it allows me to breathe
to rejoice in loss
as heroic waves wash my tears away
fuck it to the controlled chaos
the purposeful ignorance that shelters so many
their dark caverns, where books rust
and imagery comes in bills and reruns
fuck it serves me freedom
to soar above the hatred of evening newscasts
the murderous rage so far from my door
one click turns me off, the next
takes me mountaintop high
I vote Fuck It for President
Fuck It for the New World Leader
my new favorite team,
The Fighting Fuck It's
never a concern for victory
as all are winners
so kick your bucket list
to the curb
and step up to say
“FUCK IT”
you'll be glad you did
- Rob Dyer
(1 poem added 10.24.11)
editor's note: Hell, Yeah! Sign me up! - mh
on the mattress of fate
the vacuum cleaner sucks the day
from a swathe of grey carpet tiles,
and in the narrow slice of daylight
between dark stores of dubious goods,
the damp and spotty bedding
of some body's fate
stands propped
beside the sign
that reads:
DO NOT LEAVE YOUR RUBBISH HERE,
PUT IT ON THE STREET
and I think of a house
eight hundred miles
and fifteen years from here,
where one night I was visited
by the little bittersweet phantom
who had helped me make that first death-crack
in the shiny, woody hardness
of the conker
of my heart;
silent,
we rolled on a flat mattress,
and
I will never know
why her insinuating hand
ghosted, unbidden,
to the hardness
of the hotness
of my prick,
and
I will never know
why her slim fingers'
quiet enquiry
was ended, suddenly,
in a noisy rage of slurs,
and in the dramatic crashing
of the garden gate.
when I had my one chance to ask about it,
a lifetime later
in a hotel bar
and in the here-and-now...
well, I think I saw
that no good could come
from finding out.
- this is my england
(added 10.23.11)
editor's note: Sometimes pillow talk is abruptly replaced by cold alone mattress moan. Why ask, "Why?" - 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...
Busily Livin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
P.S. Wanna Celebrate 7 Years of Open Mic Madness?!
"At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since." Salvador Dali
Join Mad Swirl on 11.02.11, starting at 8:00-ish, when we celebrate 7 years of open mic madness! Yep folks, we be 7! And what a way to celebrate... 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! Come to be a part of the madness!
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
under the weather (above) by featured artist, Eleanor Leonne Bennett.
Our initial reaction upon first seeing Eleanor's photographs was "Wow!" Then we were Wow!ed again when we read her bio. At the ripe age of 15, this young artist has already been published and featured around the world. It's no surprise to us, either - her keen ability to capture life's subtle, eerie truths is definitely worth all the applause. It sure makes you wonder where she'll be in 10 years, huh? Go get yourself a first look and you can say YOU discovered this talented, young photographer way back when... - mio
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we considered an irrelevant question, the answer rife with negative implications; we threw out the bucket and just said "Fuck it!"; we lost our rejuvenated horizontal expectancy, grown cold with age; we defied another question, the stirring of life's stew until thickened; we tripped over time's eternal apple, unheard, unseen, unreal; we revisited the state of our soul, this time spent with a pin-prick puncture, expelled with a whoosh and a swirl; lastly, we perfected our defiance to invade the Day of the Dead as a beast unbroken. Trick or treat! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
A BEAST UNBROKEN
when I become death
the night will darken
and the beaten path does unfurl
I must break the circle
when I become death
the blood of thy mother
where does the river go?
I must wound this healer
when I become death
a hundred years of solitude
through the eye of a mollusk
I must look into this mirror
when I become death
scatter my ashes over
the charred ruins of the great empire
I must dig through this flesh
When I become death
my memories obscure
leaving a vague face of joy
I must seek a newer poison
When I become death
everything will burn
and I will start again
I must cleanse the void
When I become death
I will stand before the behometh
a beast unbroken
- Nicholas Martin
(1 poem added 10.29.11)
editor's note: As we approach this Day of the Dead, we reflect upon another Day, when we become... - mh
My Soul, She Feels!
Today I feel my soul
Coursing through my veins as though...
She is desirous to explore the universe,
As I, earthbound, have always been to explore right here.
I am sure if I feel but one prick today at all
She will rush out in a whoosh...
Then a swirl. And gone into oblivion,
Never again to pulse nor ache.
And only time can divulge...
The limit of flesh constraint.
- Mike R Owens
(added 10.28.11)
editor's note: In with a bang, out with a fizzle; a pin-pricked balloon darting into oblivion. Who cares? Let's test those limits! - mh
TIME
Time is a piper
but I cannot hear it.
Time is a river
but I cannot feel it.
Time is Eden’s apple
but I cannot taste it.
Time is a glacier
but I cannot see it.
Time is an inferno
but I cannot smell it.
Time is senseless
but I can always sense it.
Time is the edge
of eternity.
- Robert E. Petras
(added 10.27.11)
editor's note: Yes, dance along the precipice and thumb your nose; can't see it, etc., so, what's the problem? Uh, don't trip on that apple. - mh
Apraxia
Have you ever seen an
elephant gas mask?
Dominatrix mask for the moon
or a scarecrow made out
of three mailboxes?
Paper cuts into readymade
bleeding hearts.
Have you ever scored a sore,
exposing the pink continent beneath?
Sylvia said, "Love set you going like a fat gold watch"
but I am made of copper -
the coiled mass from a
mothers unspun thread.
These little houses
have no homes
to hold them - only a plot,
that must steep
in order to thicken.
- Kayla Smith
(1 poem added 10.26.11)
editor's note: Just because you asked, doesn't mean I will. Masks, scarecrows, what else? I refuse to see a thing until the plot thickens. - mh
Waiting the Cool
I
I remember I was sturdy enough,
The multifarious chores were effortless for me,
I used to drive and drag the cart,
Carrying weighty loads was nothing for me,
During the day in the scorching sun,
I wasn’t influenced from sweating and fatigue,
My frame was as hard as iron,
My heart was extended enough,
I used to sleep around the streets,
My vision was too clear,
I used to see my world,
Where I was the hero around,
Life was so free,
I used to roam any nook of my world,
There was no chain of command upon me,
I used to be arrogant on me,
There was no worry in my psyche,
My horizontal expectancy was on my soul,
That used to rejuvenate me.
II
I know my heart is shrinking now,
It pumps differently,
My vision is leaving me,
It pains me and I feel dry into it,
My frame is putrefying and rotting,
I am stooped now and becoming shorter,
My muscles are blemishing and fading,
I see the wrinkles are teasing me,
My entire status is the centre of all diseases,
I’m waiting the day,
My life is as like the setting sun,
I shelter with homogeneity to me,
My life is as the dew against dawn,
I have countless uneasiness,
I feel the frost in my heart,
Now I wait the day-the end!
- Chiranjibi Niroula
(1 poem added 10.25.11)
editor's note: Doesn't have to be "the end" - keep that "horizontal expectancy" on your soul. Be cool! - mh
fuck it list
bucket lists are bullshit
what a waste of time
living for dreams
you didn't believe in
chasing crippled notions and
following losers to the gray zone
of equality
in the waning moments
awareness sets in and now
you're ready?
for what,
a certain sunset
to share with yourself
a thirty minute meal
overpriced and consumed, reduced
to a golden crap
puking in some unpronounceable ocean
because you saw a movie and.....
how about a kick in your ass
for not
doing more when you were...alive
when the grind was eating your soul
so the kids could be
happy or
the endless evenings spent smiling
at the table set just so, like a Williams-Sonoma ad
the one your ex-wife swore the Wilson's did not have,
yet
just because Mr. Handcock drove a Jag
you bought the Bentley
showing neighbors how important
you think…you are
the dust on your heels confirms,
dreamers die slower deaths
I say, let's speed up the process
.
.
.
I'm working on my list
my, fuck it list
going nowhere and melting
into myself, at peace with me
even as the red ants of fate dine on my bones,
constant comfort is near
fuck it allows me to breathe
to rejoice in loss
as heroic waves wash my tears away
fuck it to the controlled chaos
the purposeful ignorance that shelters so many
their dark caverns, where books rust
and imagery comes in bills and reruns
fuck it serves me freedom
to soar above the hatred of evening newscasts
the murderous rage so far from my door
one click turns me off, the next
takes me mountaintop high
I vote Fuck It for President
Fuck It for the New World Leader
my new favorite team,
The Fighting Fuck It's
never a concern for victory
as all are winners
so kick your bucket list
to the curb
and step up to say
“FUCK IT”
you'll be glad you did
- Rob Dyer
(1 poem added 10.24.11)
editor's note: Hell, Yeah! Sign me up! - mh
on the mattress of fate
the vacuum cleaner sucks the day
from a swathe of grey carpet tiles,
and in the narrow slice of daylight
between dark stores of dubious goods,
the damp and spotty bedding
of some body's fate
stands propped
beside the sign
that reads:
DO NOT LEAVE YOUR RUBBISH HERE,
PUT IT ON THE STREET
and I think of a house
eight hundred miles
and fifteen years from here,
where one night I was visited
by the little bittersweet phantom
who had helped me make that first death-crack
in the shiny, woody hardness
of the conker
of my heart;
silent,
we rolled on a flat mattress,
and
I will never know
why her insinuating hand
ghosted, unbidden,
to the hardness
of the hotness
of my prick,
and
I will never know
why her slim fingers'
quiet enquiry
was ended, suddenly,
in a noisy rage of slurs,
and in the dramatic crashing
of the garden gate.
when I had my one chance to ask about it,
a lifetime later
in a hotel bar
and in the here-and-now...
well, I think I saw
that no good could come
from finding out.
- this is my england
(added 10.23.11)
editor's note: Sometimes pillow talk is abruptly replaced by cold alone mattress moan. Why ask, "Why?" - 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...
Busily Livin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
P.S. Wanna Celebrate 7 Years of Open Mic Madness?!
"At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since." Salvador Dali
Join Mad Swirl on 11.02.11, starting at 8:00-ish, when we celebrate 7 years of open mic madness! Yep folks, we be 7! And what a way to celebrate... 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! Come to be a part of the madness!
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
Comments