The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.25.12
“I wore black because I liked it. I still do, and wearing it still means something to me. It's still my symbol of rebellion -- against a stagnant status quo, against our hypocritical houses of God, against people whose minds are closed to others' ideas.” Johnny Cash
Digital illustration by Johnny Olson
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we began with mirror madness made to muddy self-perception, could be masked in self-deception; we hooked a hotel stay into a hospital visit, hollow states filled with our extra baggage, hindered zombies, helped stormtrooper healthcare; we garnered seeds of grief, but shunned the shoots to gaze at stars; we plumbed depths of desire to see how much is time enough; we watercooler clustered for clandestined cubicle coupling, coital culmination and crashed commitments; we lavished in a lilting lull, learned how to listen from a doctor of jazz; then we poured it all into a cocktail shaker to strain out a dreamer's diatribe, a written appeal for tolerance. Not bad for week's work. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
The Letter
To,
The Wise Men,
and the Rational Ones.
The old and experienced,
and the young and successful.
The ones who know too much,
and those who think they do.
This letter is for all of you,
and all others are invited to read too.
Forgive me for any social blunders,
Etiquette was my third language in school.
I know,
My hopeful heart is out of tune with your thrifty ones.
But I have a Deal,
an Agreement of sorts.
Please read it carefully
and sign it with your words.
I promise you my share of it,
if you promise me yours.
Give-and-take just like you taught.
It goes, like this:
Do not judge me for being different,
And I won’t judge you for being ordinary.
Do not right my wrongs I beg you.
Leave me to my reckless mistakes,
and I won’t scorn your hackneyed perfection.
I do not throw stones at your mansions,
why then do you burst My bubble?
Leave me to my blissful ignorance,
and I won’t challenge your vengeful wisdom
You mourn for parents who lived past their stay,
and I for the saplings you slay.
What made your sorrow greater than mine?
You lay your heart out for the boywhodoesn’tcare,
and I for summer rains and winter air.
Why is your love greater than mine?
I am dancing to music you cannot hear,
You march to drums I do not follow.
I am gliding on air you cannot eye,
You tread on ropes I do not see.
Am I deaf, or are You blind?
Don’t judge me for being strange,
and I won’t deride you for being stale.
I will let you frown at me, I swear...
if you let me laugh at your expense.
Yours truly,
The Dreamer
- Saheli Khastagir
(1 poem added 02.25.12)
editor's note: Does this come Postage Due, Postmark Unknown? You can mark it Return to Sender, or pay the extra postage and reply in kind. (Welcome Saheli to our congress of Contributing Poets - more poems on his page...) - mh
She Sounds: For Sweet Poppa D
She sounds like sweet peach mint tea
That was stirred in the good pitcher
From the china cabinet
That is served on a tray
With tea cakes
She sounds like a
Morning on a lake
With two bamboo poles
With only one with a hook in it
And a poetry book
On a swamp boat
She sounds like breakfast
In the city debating
Pancakes or waffles
And you know that stuff
Is bad for you
But you order extra
Butter and syrup
She sounds like
An evening in a sharp suit
And an orange dress
Dancing in socks and stockings
A party of two
She sounds like she wants
To undress me
And she wants it now
With a delectable cackle
And no reason to blush
She sounds like a beginning
- Gayle Bell
(2 poems added 02.24.12)
editor's note: Oh, yes, indeed! She sounds exactly like that! (Further your education with another poem by Gayle on her page - drink up!) - mh
The Affair in the Office
It belonged to all of us in a way
because we all shared
in the surprise
that it existed at all,
and also, privately, in the thrill
of the two lovers
(none more surprised than they)
who’d worked together in the same sad office
with all of us for all
these years, and both of them married,
and both unhappily. It was
a sad office, like so many
sad offices, full of the inexorable sadness
of cubicles, and computers, and empty
of love. Or so we thought. For no one
saw it growing—it must have
gotten in through a high
bit of laughter in the lunchroom,
then a glancing away
and a looking back again, the way
it sometimes will. And when it got out
in whispers around the water cooler
we all drank from it,
we drank it in, and in this way
it refreshed us, and amazed us,
and belonged to us because
we all took it home, took it
with us in the car, or on the train, sat with it
in rush hour, shaking our heads as though
we were listening to music, and in a way
we were listening to music,
shaking our heads and smiling,
looking out the window, fingers drumming.
- Paul Hostovsky
(added 02.23.12)
editor's note: Cubicle monotony turned into RomCom delight for all. Look around, could be happening in an office near you... - mh
Time Enough
he whispered
to her,
is as important
as any desire
between
men and women
when day turns night
and the screaming stars
fade behind the shades,
the bottom edges filthy
from dead flies on the sill,
and couples never notice
as they close their eyes
with time
enough
at last.
- Joseph D. DiLella
(1 poem added 02.22.12)
editor's note: We have what we have; but with another, enough can be enough. - mh
Pain Comes
Pain comes here
and seeking some soft ground
spreads it's seeds
Beneath the light
Then plain as you like
without fanfare, or catalyst
and indifferent to natural laws,
Shoots appear
With roots
deep through time
cradled though in this particular
isolation here and now.
And prayers for the dead
are better spent on those that are left
Those in need of the force
of another soul
One that whispers:
'When the digging hour is nigh
we will touch our shoulders close
bring to the same star, our sight
and wait, and wait'
- Christopher Smith
(1 poem added 02.21.12)
editor's note: The seeds planted deep in our emotional soil begin to creep out and create vines that weave together to make the garments we wear like fashion. And while we wait for our turn on the runway, we wonder, "Does this outfit make my soul look sad?" - jo
HOLLOW STATES
Chewing on an old computer hard drive
the maestro's teeth indirectly manipulate his bowel movement's
memory foam into the shape of a duck. Knowing that when it
morphs, Nutella provides the gloomiest of thrills.
An optical illusion of the hotel's impending implosion
made possible by the folded spaces between
acupunctures on the fake luggage in the lobby.
The elephant in your silence grandly twitches its ears – ears
wired to Nowhere's three densest gravitational loci.
Combining to form a chicken in the drywall: both real and imagined.
After wearily climbing off his gurney, the patient saw it
covered in meatless dots. In heavy silence.
Wonder what happens to the loose change in the pockets of mall Zombies.
One looks like it has a booger duct-taped to a leak.
The back-alley acupuncturist says he loves 'doing' fake luggage.
Deals directly with the symptom of said luggage not being able
to 'move their hollow states.' Some really empty people, for example,
require a special apparatus with a special built-in sack.
Darth Vader's gifts on Christmas are all really amazing; they are
all stuffers of the hollow states of amputees such as himself.
How he meditates on stopping the seizure from crawling –
with the sound of a pencil sharpening – down his
favorite pig roast. In the next room someone's routinely
measuring a stormtrooper's Ph.
- Tyson Bley
(1 poem added 02.20.12)
editor's note: I always thought there were clones of Shrodinger's Cat filling in those hollow states. Finally, thanks to acupuncture, we have room for that extra toothbrush. - mh
MIRROR IMAGE
the face may taunt
but it’s my own
it may look at me
with undisguised disgust
but it has no doubt
as to the object
of this revulsion
it examines this
catalog of features
both aggravating
and despairing
runs them through
a reflecting program
of past failure
current dismal situation
and future limited prospects
and responds
with something called
a mirror image
aaaah...
wherever there’s a likeness
can a hate-ness be far behind
- John Grey
(1 poem added 02.19.12)
editor's note: Is what we see always a construct of how we feel? Maybe the best we can achieve after likeness is indifferent-ness. - 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...
Rebellin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Digital illustration by Johnny Olson
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we began with mirror madness made to muddy self-perception, could be masked in self-deception; we hooked a hotel stay into a hospital visit, hollow states filled with our extra baggage, hindered zombies, helped stormtrooper healthcare; we garnered seeds of grief, but shunned the shoots to gaze at stars; we plumbed depths of desire to see how much is time enough; we watercooler clustered for clandestined cubicle coupling, coital culmination and crashed commitments; we lavished in a lilting lull, learned how to listen from a doctor of jazz; then we poured it all into a cocktail shaker to strain out a dreamer's diatribe, a written appeal for tolerance. Not bad for week's work. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
The Letter
To,
The Wise Men,
and the Rational Ones.
The old and experienced,
and the young and successful.
The ones who know too much,
and those who think they do.
This letter is for all of you,
and all others are invited to read too.
Forgive me for any social blunders,
Etiquette was my third language in school.
I know,
My hopeful heart is out of tune with your thrifty ones.
But I have a Deal,
an Agreement of sorts.
Please read it carefully
and sign it with your words.
I promise you my share of it,
if you promise me yours.
Give-and-take just like you taught.
It goes, like this:
Do not judge me for being different,
And I won’t judge you for being ordinary.
Do not right my wrongs I beg you.
Leave me to my reckless mistakes,
and I won’t scorn your hackneyed perfection.
I do not throw stones at your mansions,
why then do you burst My bubble?
Leave me to my blissful ignorance,
and I won’t challenge your vengeful wisdom
You mourn for parents who lived past their stay,
and I for the saplings you slay.
What made your sorrow greater than mine?
You lay your heart out for the boywhodoesn’tcare,
and I for summer rains and winter air.
Why is your love greater than mine?
I am dancing to music you cannot hear,
You march to drums I do not follow.
I am gliding on air you cannot eye,
You tread on ropes I do not see.
Am I deaf, or are You blind?
Don’t judge me for being strange,
and I won’t deride you for being stale.
I will let you frown at me, I swear...
if you let me laugh at your expense.
Yours truly,
The Dreamer
- Saheli Khastagir
(1 poem added 02.25.12)
editor's note: Does this come Postage Due, Postmark Unknown? You can mark it Return to Sender, or pay the extra postage and reply in kind. (Welcome Saheli to our congress of Contributing Poets - more poems on his page...) - mh
She Sounds: For Sweet Poppa D
She sounds like sweet peach mint tea
That was stirred in the good pitcher
From the china cabinet
That is served on a tray
With tea cakes
She sounds like a
Morning on a lake
With two bamboo poles
With only one with a hook in it
And a poetry book
On a swamp boat
She sounds like breakfast
In the city debating
Pancakes or waffles
And you know that stuff
Is bad for you
But you order extra
Butter and syrup
She sounds like
An evening in a sharp suit
And an orange dress
Dancing in socks and stockings
A party of two
She sounds like she wants
To undress me
And she wants it now
With a delectable cackle
And no reason to blush
She sounds like a beginning
- Gayle Bell
(2 poems added 02.24.12)
editor's note: Oh, yes, indeed! She sounds exactly like that! (Further your education with another poem by Gayle on her page - drink up!) - mh
The Affair in the Office
It belonged to all of us in a way
because we all shared
in the surprise
that it existed at all,
and also, privately, in the thrill
of the two lovers
(none more surprised than they)
who’d worked together in the same sad office
with all of us for all
these years, and both of them married,
and both unhappily. It was
a sad office, like so many
sad offices, full of the inexorable sadness
of cubicles, and computers, and empty
of love. Or so we thought. For no one
saw it growing—it must have
gotten in through a high
bit of laughter in the lunchroom,
then a glancing away
and a looking back again, the way
it sometimes will. And when it got out
in whispers around the water cooler
we all drank from it,
we drank it in, and in this way
it refreshed us, and amazed us,
and belonged to us because
we all took it home, took it
with us in the car, or on the train, sat with it
in rush hour, shaking our heads as though
we were listening to music, and in a way
we were listening to music,
shaking our heads and smiling,
looking out the window, fingers drumming.
- Paul Hostovsky
(added 02.23.12)
editor's note: Cubicle monotony turned into RomCom delight for all. Look around, could be happening in an office near you... - mh
Time Enough
he whispered
to her,
is as important
as any desire
between
men and women
when day turns night
and the screaming stars
fade behind the shades,
the bottom edges filthy
from dead flies on the sill,
and couples never notice
as they close their eyes
with time
enough
at last.
- Joseph D. DiLella
(1 poem added 02.22.12)
editor's note: We have what we have; but with another, enough can be enough. - mh
Pain Comes
Pain comes here
and seeking some soft ground
spreads it's seeds
Beneath the light
Then plain as you like
without fanfare, or catalyst
and indifferent to natural laws,
Shoots appear
With roots
deep through time
cradled though in this particular
isolation here and now.
And prayers for the dead
are better spent on those that are left
Those in need of the force
of another soul
One that whispers:
'When the digging hour is nigh
we will touch our shoulders close
bring to the same star, our sight
and wait, and wait'
- Christopher Smith
(1 poem added 02.21.12)
editor's note: The seeds planted deep in our emotional soil begin to creep out and create vines that weave together to make the garments we wear like fashion. And while we wait for our turn on the runway, we wonder, "Does this outfit make my soul look sad?" - jo
HOLLOW STATES
Chewing on an old computer hard drive
the maestro's teeth indirectly manipulate his bowel movement's
memory foam into the shape of a duck. Knowing that when it
morphs, Nutella provides the gloomiest of thrills.
An optical illusion of the hotel's impending implosion
made possible by the folded spaces between
acupunctures on the fake luggage in the lobby.
The elephant in your silence grandly twitches its ears – ears
wired to Nowhere's three densest gravitational loci.
Combining to form a chicken in the drywall: both real and imagined.
After wearily climbing off his gurney, the patient saw it
covered in meatless dots. In heavy silence.
Wonder what happens to the loose change in the pockets of mall Zombies.
One looks like it has a booger duct-taped to a leak.
The back-alley acupuncturist says he loves 'doing' fake luggage.
Deals directly with the symptom of said luggage not being able
to 'move their hollow states.' Some really empty people, for example,
require a special apparatus with a special built-in sack.
Darth Vader's gifts on Christmas are all really amazing; they are
all stuffers of the hollow states of amputees such as himself.
How he meditates on stopping the seizure from crawling –
with the sound of a pencil sharpening – down his
favorite pig roast. In the next room someone's routinely
measuring a stormtrooper's Ph.
- Tyson Bley
(1 poem added 02.20.12)
editor's note: I always thought there were clones of Shrodinger's Cat filling in those hollow states. Finally, thanks to acupuncture, we have room for that extra toothbrush. - mh
MIRROR IMAGE
the face may taunt
but it’s my own
it may look at me
with undisguised disgust
but it has no doubt
as to the object
of this revulsion
it examines this
catalog of features
both aggravating
and despairing
runs them through
a reflecting program
of past failure
current dismal situation
and future limited prospects
and responds
with something called
a mirror image
aaaah...
wherever there’s a likeness
can a hate-ness be far behind
- John Grey
(1 poem added 02.19.12)
editor's note: Is what we see always a construct of how we feel? Maybe the best we can achieve after likeness is indifferent-ness. - 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...
Rebellin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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