The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 12.31.11
“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.” T.S. Eliot
Digital illustration by Johnny Olson
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we teetered on the brink of ideal obsessions with peace on earth; we beatified the boundaries of social convention, never trust a mustachioed male, his quivering lip hidden by so much hair; we dodged our transitory time-share, eyes squeezed shut against the lightning strikes of short stark exposure; we wound a wonderland woven under, madness at the core of our consciousness; we sampled a new cuisine, sugar from sand to heart-stopping ginger; we dabbled in the nuance of nude renderings, no sexual fixations but what we cannot control, the art-loving animals we are; then, on the eve of annum novum, a new alphabet for the spelling of life and laughing cow universe, not quite nascent, but crowning nicely. 2012 will require sunblock and shades, we think!! - mh
Modern Walls
Out in the dark
I dig, dig, and dig myself;
Stalking meagre alphabets
Revolving around them like a brainless planet
I’m a stalker
Lover of several words
A, B and C
P, T and Q
I lose sense of them
Maya says Love is Hate
Prakash says Hate is Lust
The white skin of the coughing sky
Drags on the slippery tongue
Slips, sleeps,
Suave macho!
And I laugh, laugh
Breaking all my teeth one by one
Massaging the cow’s tail
I am her unborn calf,
I am her invisible universe.
Tomorrow's sun will evaporate me.
I will tan my heart.
- Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 12.31.11)
editor's note: Our gasps and grunts amount to little if not perceived as the emanations of our untanned hearts. Throw out the sun block; lick the sky; put on your shades... - mh
Collage
All of the art students’ hairdos hold together:
a newspaper hat, a pencil barrette,
a paintbrush, the weather, gravity, glue.
Art students hold that the nude is not—
gravity is—what moves us and holds us
glued to her breasts. Her skin is the weather.
That triangle of hair is a newspaper hat
penciled in and folded over, holding together.
Under the moon and a newspaper hat
I make love to a blue-haired student of art
with pencil-breasts, a single paintbrush
miraculously holding all that weather of hair.
- Paul Hostovsky
(added 12.30.11)
editor's note: A downpour is imminent and me without my rubbers. Gravity brings gravitas to my art appreciation! - mh
Ginger
Something was said
of this I’m sure,
something in green,
something with teeth.
Something profound.
I lean in to
catch a whisper,
but it’s far too late
for that.
And I can see her eyes change
from sugar
to sand,
smoothing out
the ripples;
the ever growing distance
between us.
I want to know the words,
I want to know why!
And I fell apart
like a dying sunflower,
slipped Down a hole
in salt,
a whole in salt.
I just let it happen.
Didn’t put up much
of a fight really,
let go and unraveled,
unraveling still.
And I can still taste the ginger,
as I listen to my heart stop.
- Abigale Louise LeCavalier
(added 12.29.11)
editor's note: Here's a recipe from Life's cookbook. We didn't know ginger could stop a heart. Use sparingly, to taste. - mh
THE MAD HATTER
How
is a Raven
like a Writing Desk?
The riddle was posed
to a man,
once a soldier,
now a hatter,
sitting
down on his luck beside the closed
down factory behind him.
I honestly
have no idea. He replied
looking up
towards the woman in white
in front of him.
This woman was merely called
The Queen,
the owner of many hat shops across the land
who had taken pity
on the distraught man.
Perfect!
She responded with glee
and offered dainty
white fingers towards him.
What if I said,
in exchange for your sanity,
and your sword
I could make you immortal?
Never dying,
never needing sleep,
never requiring food...
Without a second
thought
he took the woman's hand
and
gave a nod of agreement,
before his mind
fell into madness.
The clock
struck 6
and a cat
walked by,
smiling broadly to him,
a hare came up
as well, and a mouse
scurried up his leg....
We're all mad here!
This was the beginning
of the story to a man
who is no longer a man,
far gone from the boundaries
of society
to the point
that he can simply be called Mad.
The story isn't all this,
no,
far from it.
The man now called
The Mad Hatter
opened up a wee
shop at the edge of the city,
The Hatter's Hat Emporium
it was called
filled with hats for all
shapes and sizes...
But alas
his mind was gone
taking the friendship from
a March Hare,
a Doormouse,
and
a Cheshire Cat
with him into the dark
that was his own head,
or as he called it,
Underland.
Would you care for some
tea?
- Michael Ian Sattler
(1 poem added 12.28.11)
editor's note: A spot of tea for the Mad Ones, fresh from a party perpetually in progress. Under wonder! (Let's welcome another mad poet to our Swirl of Contributing Poets - read more on Michael's page.) - mh
Realization
This crude life
Is asking for many things
Stretching its arms
With the manner of insatiable
Lightening weeds of summer
Where our human forgets
The dark horse we rode.
Know this lingering self
Who has to return back
Withering along the night
So to realize the position
Understand yourself
In the lightening furrow
Among the black clouds
Just to make that light
Meaningful depiction
For our momentary
Residence on earth.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 12.27.11)
editor's note: In dead of winter longest night time of year, a little light to show the way; glowing from inside out or flashing from outside in. - mh
Articulations Calling Peace
Our articulations can call peace,
As long as we fail to compare my bête noirs to yours.
Likewise, our children can overcome blind spots,
If only we strive not to treat the next generation like remoras; they’re complete, as is.
Equally, despite resultant feelings of prohibition,
It’s possible for us leftover souls to lead among the media’s darlings.
All frazonism in our thoughts needs be clipped, trimmed, measured,
While we willing halt adhering to stupid realities involving exclusive social rubrics.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 12.26.11)
editor's note: It's hard enough to have high expectations mostly mildly met, but to turn them into mental strip-search thought crime crenelations meant to crimp others' comport? No wonder we can't keep the peace. - mh
a christmas pome
the fool considers
the construct of the season
myriad noels
god rest ye merry
ad infinitum
yuletide eternum
ever glows the fire
heating the outer chromium shells
of jingling bells
dangling jangling from the nape of the neck
of harlequin
covered in black and white checks
yin and yang contrast
twixt blindness and sight
holiday opulence
or occasion for thanks
we make the choices
annual opportunities
to be numb to the game
or look around differently
the fool embraces
the good and the soft
the kind and the caring
with angels aloft
fair messengers singing
a heavenly tune
rejoice in the notion
the faint possibility
that one day a year
can proliferate multiply
into every and always
and peace on earth
good will
good will
good will
- MH Clay
(1 poem added 12.25.11)
editor's note: Why do we limit this feeling to only once a year? Let's make everyday a holy-day! Come one and all, let's put on our jester hats and be enlightened fools! Peace on earth... can it be? Who knows, perhaps someday... - jo
•••••••••••
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...
Beginnin' Again,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Digital illustration by Johnny Olson
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we teetered on the brink of ideal obsessions with peace on earth; we beatified the boundaries of social convention, never trust a mustachioed male, his quivering lip hidden by so much hair; we dodged our transitory time-share, eyes squeezed shut against the lightning strikes of short stark exposure; we wound a wonderland woven under, madness at the core of our consciousness; we sampled a new cuisine, sugar from sand to heart-stopping ginger; we dabbled in the nuance of nude renderings, no sexual fixations but what we cannot control, the art-loving animals we are; then, on the eve of annum novum, a new alphabet for the spelling of life and laughing cow universe, not quite nascent, but crowning nicely. 2012 will require sunblock and shades, we think!! - mh
Modern Walls
Out in the dark
I dig, dig, and dig myself;
Stalking meagre alphabets
Revolving around them like a brainless planet
I’m a stalker
Lover of several words
A, B and C
P, T and Q
I lose sense of them
Maya says Love is Hate
Prakash says Hate is Lust
The white skin of the coughing sky
Drags on the slippery tongue
Slips, sleeps,
Suave macho!
And I laugh, laugh
Breaking all my teeth one by one
Massaging the cow’s tail
I am her unborn calf,
I am her invisible universe.
Tomorrow's sun will evaporate me.
I will tan my heart.
- Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 12.31.11)
editor's note: Our gasps and grunts amount to little if not perceived as the emanations of our untanned hearts. Throw out the sun block; lick the sky; put on your shades... - mh
Collage
All of the art students’ hairdos hold together:
a newspaper hat, a pencil barrette,
a paintbrush, the weather, gravity, glue.
Art students hold that the nude is not—
gravity is—what moves us and holds us
glued to her breasts. Her skin is the weather.
That triangle of hair is a newspaper hat
penciled in and folded over, holding together.
Under the moon and a newspaper hat
I make love to a blue-haired student of art
with pencil-breasts, a single paintbrush
miraculously holding all that weather of hair.
- Paul Hostovsky
(added 12.30.11)
editor's note: A downpour is imminent and me without my rubbers. Gravity brings gravitas to my art appreciation! - mh
Ginger
Something was said
of this I’m sure,
something in green,
something with teeth.
Something profound.
I lean in to
catch a whisper,
but it’s far too late
for that.
And I can see her eyes change
from sugar
to sand,
smoothing out
the ripples;
the ever growing distance
between us.
I want to know the words,
I want to know why!
And I fell apart
like a dying sunflower,
slipped Down a hole
in salt,
a whole in salt.
I just let it happen.
Didn’t put up much
of a fight really,
let go and unraveled,
unraveling still.
And I can still taste the ginger,
as I listen to my heart stop.
- Abigale Louise LeCavalier
(added 12.29.11)
editor's note: Here's a recipe from Life's cookbook. We didn't know ginger could stop a heart. Use sparingly, to taste. - mh
THE MAD HATTER
How
is a Raven
like a Writing Desk?
The riddle was posed
to a man,
once a soldier,
now a hatter,
sitting
down on his luck beside the closed
down factory behind him.
I honestly
have no idea. He replied
looking up
towards the woman in white
in front of him.
This woman was merely called
The Queen,
the owner of many hat shops across the land
who had taken pity
on the distraught man.
Perfect!
She responded with glee
and offered dainty
white fingers towards him.
What if I said,
in exchange for your sanity,
and your sword
I could make you immortal?
Never dying,
never needing sleep,
never requiring food...
Without a second
thought
he took the woman's hand
and
gave a nod of agreement,
before his mind
fell into madness.
The clock
struck 6
and a cat
walked by,
smiling broadly to him,
a hare came up
as well, and a mouse
scurried up his leg....
We're all mad here!
This was the beginning
of the story to a man
who is no longer a man,
far gone from the boundaries
of society
to the point
that he can simply be called Mad.
The story isn't all this,
no,
far from it.
The man now called
The Mad Hatter
opened up a wee
shop at the edge of the city,
The Hatter's Hat Emporium
it was called
filled with hats for all
shapes and sizes...
But alas
his mind was gone
taking the friendship from
a March Hare,
a Doormouse,
and
a Cheshire Cat
with him into the dark
that was his own head,
or as he called it,
Underland.
Would you care for some
tea?
- Michael Ian Sattler
(1 poem added 12.28.11)
editor's note: A spot of tea for the Mad Ones, fresh from a party perpetually in progress. Under wonder! (Let's welcome another mad poet to our Swirl of Contributing Poets - read more on Michael's page.) - mh
Realization
This crude life
Is asking for many things
Stretching its arms
With the manner of insatiable
Lightening weeds of summer
Where our human forgets
The dark horse we rode.
Know this lingering self
Who has to return back
Withering along the night
So to realize the position
Understand yourself
In the lightening furrow
Among the black clouds
Just to make that light
Meaningful depiction
For our momentary
Residence on earth.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 12.27.11)
editor's note: In dead of winter longest night time of year, a little light to show the way; glowing from inside out or flashing from outside in. - mh
Articulations Calling Peace
Our articulations can call peace,
As long as we fail to compare my bête noirs to yours.
Likewise, our children can overcome blind spots,
If only we strive not to treat the next generation like remoras; they’re complete, as is.
Equally, despite resultant feelings of prohibition,
It’s possible for us leftover souls to lead among the media’s darlings.
All frazonism in our thoughts needs be clipped, trimmed, measured,
While we willing halt adhering to stupid realities involving exclusive social rubrics.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 12.26.11)
editor's note: It's hard enough to have high expectations mostly mildly met, but to turn them into mental strip-search thought crime crenelations meant to crimp others' comport? No wonder we can't keep the peace. - mh
a christmas pome
the fool considers
the construct of the season
myriad noels
god rest ye merry
ad infinitum
yuletide eternum
ever glows the fire
heating the outer chromium shells
of jingling bells
dangling jangling from the nape of the neck
of harlequin
covered in black and white checks
yin and yang contrast
twixt blindness and sight
holiday opulence
or occasion for thanks
we make the choices
annual opportunities
to be numb to the game
or look around differently
the fool embraces
the good and the soft
the kind and the caring
with angels aloft
fair messengers singing
a heavenly tune
rejoice in the notion
the faint possibility
that one day a year
can proliferate multiply
into every and always
and peace on earth
good will
good will
good will
- MH Clay
(1 poem added 12.25.11)
editor's note: Why do we limit this feeling to only once a year? Let's make everyday a holy-day! Come one and all, let's put on our jester hats and be enlightened fools! Peace on earth... can it be? Who knows, perhaps someday... - jo
•••••••••••
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...
Beginnin' Again,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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