The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.18.12
“Life is very short and what we have to do must be done in the now.” Audre Lorde
Cheese (above) by featured artist, Fabio Sassi, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yo's right over here and a-way you'll GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we began with an appeal to forbidden-apple aptitudes for sweet Valentine hearts and chocolates served up naked and next to bare skin; we deconstructed sappy sentiments from the sight of seekers of sensual desires; we objectified an empty self into clean canvas, the art is in the life; we descried the down-trodden canine, determined dog days would not be ours, give thanks; we studied sea-side management, beach as graveyard, shells as bones; we honored our heros, encumbered as we with mundanities, they still make the best statuary; we concluded with stones, the stuff of statues and sea-shells and dog days and all before, not to be ignored or eschewed. Whew! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
DISMISSING THE STONES
She talks to the flowerbeds.
She talks to the trees.
She dismisses the stones,
who mumble their displeasure.
The woman cannot hear them.
She whispers to the ants,
who crisscross into their hole.
She speaks to the caterpillars.
She gave the stones their freedom.
That did not sit well with them.
The stones wanted conversation.
The woman would not hear them.
Her life was complicated.
She did not like the stones.
It was her secret. This left the stones
with a feeling of worthlessness.
- Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(1 poem added 02.18.12)
editor's note: I once ran into a boulder with lots to say about dirt. Gave me a new appreciation for dirt. So, a little respect. - mh
EVERY BOY'S HERO
They kept it a major secret like buried
Cuban missiles or the true value of gold,
Never told us that you were just like us.
Even when they paraded you in pinstripes
Or gave you some lucky number
Or put your portrait on a box of bran flakes,
You were every boy's hero
We didn't care about the smoking, the
Drinking, or your father's image
Or your illness that ran in the family,
Or cared how you neglected your children and wife
Or knew why you ran so well,
Because you were a legend, our hero
And idols make perfect statues
Like yours they placed in center field.
- Clinton Van Inman
(1 poem added 02.17.12)
editor's note: Nasty secrets topple our icons. Everyday life is theirs as it is ours? Scandalous! Now, turn to your idol in the mirror. Any secrets there? (See more poems by Clinton on his new poetry page.) - mh
Red sky at night
I carry sea shells three at a time
to safety across beach sprinkled
with fragments of their kind.
Some purple. A few pink.
Beyond reach, evening surf
swirls more than I can rescue
into a rainbow of shards, grinds
perfectly shaped scallops, whelks,
even hawk-wing conchs fine,
then tosses them ashore
to join sand lying white in death
beside yesterday's salt.
You wade, oblivious. My footprints
pool in high tide.
I see wounds, not delight,
slicing red across the sky.
- Timothy Pilgrim
(1 poem added 02.16.12)
editor's note: We burn or bury our dead to deprive collectors everywhere of polished keepsakes, novelty knick-knacks; my shining skull as doorstop or as paperweight. - mh
The Little Bell of Night
There’s a dog on my street
that’s been hit three or four times.
When he moves forward two
of his legs go to the right,
the other two violate the laws
of gravity, play out the courtship,
the over-praised opera of bear traps.
He doesn’t fear cars, lays down
in the middle of the street
like an essay on self-loathing
and misery, answers only
to the little bell of night.
I’ve passed him by on the sidewalk
and looked into his eyes,
the two of us good at playing dead.
There’s a kinship between us,
the anonymity of hunger
as we try but fail to dodge the
madness of the world.
I say a prayer for those who
must endure the cold nights,
give thanks for a beautiful world,
the vanilla wafers I’ll soak
in coffee shortly.
- Vladimir Swirynsky
(added 02.15.12)
editor's note: Someone rings a bell; tea is served - vanilla wafers for all. The good dogs salivate on cue - the bad dogs shiver. - mh
My Masterpiece
Cut me open;
You won’t find anything;
It’s empty inside.
Outside,
I’m painted;
Different colours by different people.
Inside,
I’ve kept for myself;
Protected from the outsiders.
Herein,
I shall paint
My masterpiece.
- Prashant Das
(added 02.14.12)
editor's note: Michelangelo did not heed a pushy, impatient pope when finishing the Sistine Chapel ceiling. He took his own time, painted in his own way. When he was done everyone, pushy pope included, looked up and said, "Ahhh!" - mh
Raindrops on Roses
Her blue eyes flicker
In the spark of the
Decomposing
Night,
As she takes his hand
Above her head
And maneuvers through the
Spilling beers and pulsing music,
For all drunken, jolly eyes to see,
Laughing, howling to eternal lust
And patting him on the back in admiration
As they swarm into the guest bedroom.
The door slams,
And it reminds me of starving roses,
Rabid dogs,
One can of beer,
A child to beat,
A neighbor to hate,
A whore to pay,
A door to lock,
Cum filled tissues,
Memories of war,
Mahogany coffins,
Unreturned phone calls,
Love letters never to be sent,
Marlboro reds,
Black and white musicals,
Walking alone in morning fog,
White wine toasts,
Flowers with chocolates
And short blonde girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes sleeping
With spiders in sultry silver webs,
And I begin to hear the bed beat against the wall louder
And guess the pattern of the sheets
Right down to the splatter of the stains,
But time still remains
To think about a few more of my
Least favorite things.
- Robert D. Lyons
(added 02.13.12)
editor's note: While some get their most, others ponder their least. Those patterns and splatters are a joy to make and a bitch to clean. - mh
Such a Sultry Song
- Alexander Castiglione
(added 02.12.12)
editor's note: Behind the redactions lie the art. No need to read them - write/paint/sculpt/act/sing/play them your way. Yes, no chains! - 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...
Doin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Cheese (above) by featured artist, Fabio Sassi, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yo's right over here and a-way you'll GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we began with an appeal to forbidden-apple aptitudes for sweet Valentine hearts and chocolates served up naked and next to bare skin; we deconstructed sappy sentiments from the sight of seekers of sensual desires; we objectified an empty self into clean canvas, the art is in the life; we descried the down-trodden canine, determined dog days would not be ours, give thanks; we studied sea-side management, beach as graveyard, shells as bones; we honored our heros, encumbered as we with mundanities, they still make the best statuary; we concluded with stones, the stuff of statues and sea-shells and dog days and all before, not to be ignored or eschewed. Whew! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
DISMISSING THE STONES
She talks to the flowerbeds.
She talks to the trees.
She dismisses the stones,
who mumble their displeasure.
The woman cannot hear them.
She whispers to the ants,
who crisscross into their hole.
She speaks to the caterpillars.
She gave the stones their freedom.
That did not sit well with them.
The stones wanted conversation.
The woman would not hear them.
Her life was complicated.
She did not like the stones.
It was her secret. This left the stones
with a feeling of worthlessness.
- Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
(1 poem added 02.18.12)
editor's note: I once ran into a boulder with lots to say about dirt. Gave me a new appreciation for dirt. So, a little respect. - mh
EVERY BOY'S HERO
They kept it a major secret like buried
Cuban missiles or the true value of gold,
Never told us that you were just like us.
Even when they paraded you in pinstripes
Or gave you some lucky number
Or put your portrait on a box of bran flakes,
You were every boy's hero
We didn't care about the smoking, the
Drinking, or your father's image
Or your illness that ran in the family,
Or cared how you neglected your children and wife
Or knew why you ran so well,
Because you were a legend, our hero
And idols make perfect statues
Like yours they placed in center field.
- Clinton Van Inman
(1 poem added 02.17.12)
editor's note: Nasty secrets topple our icons. Everyday life is theirs as it is ours? Scandalous! Now, turn to your idol in the mirror. Any secrets there? (See more poems by Clinton on his new poetry page.) - mh
Red sky at night
I carry sea shells three at a time
to safety across beach sprinkled
with fragments of their kind.
Some purple. A few pink.
Beyond reach, evening surf
swirls more than I can rescue
into a rainbow of shards, grinds
perfectly shaped scallops, whelks,
even hawk-wing conchs fine,
then tosses them ashore
to join sand lying white in death
beside yesterday's salt.
You wade, oblivious. My footprints
pool in high tide.
I see wounds, not delight,
slicing red across the sky.
- Timothy Pilgrim
(1 poem added 02.16.12)
editor's note: We burn or bury our dead to deprive collectors everywhere of polished keepsakes, novelty knick-knacks; my shining skull as doorstop or as paperweight. - mh
The Little Bell of Night
There’s a dog on my street
that’s been hit three or four times.
When he moves forward two
of his legs go to the right,
the other two violate the laws
of gravity, play out the courtship,
the over-praised opera of bear traps.
He doesn’t fear cars, lays down
in the middle of the street
like an essay on self-loathing
and misery, answers only
to the little bell of night.
I’ve passed him by on the sidewalk
and looked into his eyes,
the two of us good at playing dead.
There’s a kinship between us,
the anonymity of hunger
as we try but fail to dodge the
madness of the world.
I say a prayer for those who
must endure the cold nights,
give thanks for a beautiful world,
the vanilla wafers I’ll soak
in coffee shortly.
- Vladimir Swirynsky
(added 02.15.12)
editor's note: Someone rings a bell; tea is served - vanilla wafers for all. The good dogs salivate on cue - the bad dogs shiver. - mh
My Masterpiece
Cut me open;
You won’t find anything;
It’s empty inside.
Outside,
I’m painted;
Different colours by different people.
Inside,
I’ve kept for myself;
Protected from the outsiders.
Herein,
I shall paint
My masterpiece.
- Prashant Das
(added 02.14.12)
editor's note: Michelangelo did not heed a pushy, impatient pope when finishing the Sistine Chapel ceiling. He took his own time, painted in his own way. When he was done everyone, pushy pope included, looked up and said, "Ahhh!" - mh
Raindrops on Roses
Her blue eyes flicker
In the spark of the
Decomposing
Night,
As she takes his hand
Above her head
And maneuvers through the
Spilling beers and pulsing music,
For all drunken, jolly eyes to see,
Laughing, howling to eternal lust
And patting him on the back in admiration
As they swarm into the guest bedroom.
The door slams,
And it reminds me of starving roses,
Rabid dogs,
One can of beer,
A child to beat,
A neighbor to hate,
A whore to pay,
A door to lock,
Cum filled tissues,
Memories of war,
Mahogany coffins,
Unreturned phone calls,
Love letters never to be sent,
Marlboro reds,
Black and white musicals,
Walking alone in morning fog,
White wine toasts,
Flowers with chocolates
And short blonde girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes sleeping
With spiders in sultry silver webs,
And I begin to hear the bed beat against the wall louder
And guess the pattern of the sheets
Right down to the splatter of the stains,
But time still remains
To think about a few more of my
Least favorite things.
- Robert D. Lyons
(added 02.13.12)
editor's note: While some get their most, others ponder their least. Those patterns and splatters are a joy to make and a bitch to clean. - mh
Such a Sultry Song
- Alexander Castiglione
(added 02.12.12)
editor's note: Behind the redactions lie the art. No need to read them - write/paint/sculpt/act/sing/play them your way. Yes, no chains! - 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...
Doin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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